


His Final Vow

by artfulinanities



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bottom John Watson, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Character Death, Complete, Depression, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, M/M, Mild Smut, Parentlock, Sad John, Switching, Top John, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 04:28:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4165914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artfulinanities/pseuds/artfulinanities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes could count, on one hand, the number of times that he had been rendered utterly and intensely speechless. </p>
<p>The first had been on his sixth birthday, when his parents had presented him with a wriggling, yipping, russet ball of fluff that had sprawled over his lap and licked the shock from his face.</p>
<p>The second had occurred when he felt his best friend take his final breath as he buried his face in the faded fur; a shuddering sigh that haunted his dreams for years to come.</p>
<p>The third took place in the kitchen of 221B Baker Street, when his second ever best friend asked him to stand beside him as he promised forever to his fiancé, to give a speech at his wedding as a means of reparation and affirmation of their unique friendship.</p>
<p>The fourth was when said best friend and his former assassin wife asked Sherlock to be the godfather of their unborn child and made him a legal guardian in their stead should, God forbid, anything ever happen to them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Study in Crimson

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> So, I'm a bit of an insomniac and I write when I can't sleep. This happened. 
> 
> A few notes for the work:
> 
> Anything in Italics refers to internal thoughts, flashback, texts (complete with initials for clarification) or emphasis during speech/narration.
> 
> I played around with some of the different traits of each character, so there's some OOC for a lot of them in some places, but it fit with the story and I hope it worked.
> 
> One of the most interesting things about the Sherlock(TV) fandom is the exploration of character flaws and emotional baggage. No two stories touch on the same issues in the same way, creating very rounded versions of the characters in each separate work This fic touches on the theme of being "broken" or insecure and finding someone to help put the pieces back together. There are a lot of fics that explore similar lines, so I hope I did that justice. 
> 
> I hope that you enjoy reading, and if you don't, I'm very sorry!!

Sherlock Holmes could count, on one hand, the number of times that he had been rendered utterly and intensely speechless.

 

The first had been on his sixth birthday, when his parents had presented him with a wriggling, yipping, russet ball of fluff that had sprawled over his lap and licked the shock from his face.

 

The second had occurred when he felt his best friend take his final breath as he buried his face in the faded fur; a shuddering sigh that haunted his dreams for years to come.

 

The third took place in the kitchen of 221B Baker Street, when his second ever best friend asked him to stand beside him as he promised forever to his fiancé, to give a speech at his wedding as a means of reparation and affirmation of their unique friendship.

 

The fourth was when said best friend and his former assassin wife asked Sherlock to be the godfather of their unborn child and made him a legal guardian in their stead should, God forbid, anything ever happen to them.

 

“John, I think we may have broken him,” Mary chuckled, tittering softly behind her hand as John clapped Sherlock on the back. The detective blinked rapidly, his mind rebooting as he processed the information.

 

“I’m your child’s…”

 

“Legal guardian should anything happen to us,” John confirmed, nodding.

 

“Godfather?” Sherlock finished, gaping at the expectant parents.

 

Mary’s face softened and she pulled the lanky brunette into a hug, the embrace made awkward by Sherlock’s ungainly emotional nature and the blonde’s heavy belly. John laughed at the display, smiling at the two – three, really, in a matter of weeks – most important people in his life.

 

“We couldn’t imagine anyone else for the job,” Mary reassured, squeezing Sherlock’s shoulders as she pulled away. “But I swear to God, if our child’s first word is ‘murder’, I am coming out of retirement just to hunt you down, William Sherlock Scott Holmes – yes, I listened to that conversation on the tarmac and I will use your name as blackmail. Don’t give me that face. You too, John Hamish Watson.” Both men blanched and ducked their heads, properly cowed by the unassuming pregnant woman in a ridiculous maternity jumper.

 

“It’s not my fault that all of the interesting things are inappropriate for children,” the detective muttered, striding over to the mirror affixed above the mantel, making a show of immersing himself in the case web strung across the reflective surface, small slivers of the room behind him peeping through the gaps in his notes.

 

“And no headless nuns!” Mary admonished, lowering herself carefully into John’s chair.

 

“Oh, now you’re just being unreasonable!” Sherlock snapped, waving a hand spastically in Mary’s direction.

 

“Children,” John warned, ducking into the kitchen to make a cuppa.

 

The domesticity was a normal occurrence for the three walking contradictions, a natural progression of their relationship that left them all feeling both balanced and whole. Mary had proved invaluable to the Work and, by extension, John and Sherlock’s partnership. Both men were prone to reckless, self-destructive, adrenaline-seeking behaviour, liable to race off into the seedy underbelly of London without a backwards glance. Mary had lived in the shadows, and knew when to let the boys be and when to pull them back from the edge.

 

Mary and Sherlock had grown accustomed to a life of independence and secrecy, of relying on their own natural abilities and honed skills to make their way in the harsh reality that so many viewed through rose-coloured lenses. John had seen dark and brutal things in Afghanistan, knew what his wife and best friend had done and suffered, and did his best to show them that for every dark shadow that lurked around the corner, there were also moments of light.

 

John and Mary were bound to their civilian lives, their soldier natures repressed by the monotony of normalcy forced upon them in their retirement. Sherlock gave them another battlefield, another war, to sate their need for conflict, to feed their desire to be a part of something _more_.

 

Alone, they were by no means perfect individuals, but as a collective, they were _incandescent_.

 

“John, your wife is being unreasonable.”

 

“Sherlock, you can’t show photographs of headless nuns to infants.”

 

“Not just _any_ headless nun, John. A serial killing, Satan-worshiping, albino nun!”

 

“Still no.” The doctor puttered back into the sitting room, distributing the mugs. Sherlock ignored his in favour of being a petulant child.

 

“Why not?” he pouted, ruffling his curls.

 

“Because showing graphic depictions of slaughter to a baby is not on.”

 

“Bad parenting,” Mary added, taking her (horridly) decaffeinated tea from her husband with a smile.

 

“I find that a highly illogical argument considering that your offspring will be raised by an adrenaline junkie of an ex-army doctor and a former assassin currently living under an alias, with the occasional contribution from a sociopathic consulting detective.”

 

“He does have a point.”

 

“Not helping, Mary,” John frowned, taking a sip of his own tea, leaning against the arm of his chair. It had remained there, in 221B, for John’s visits, then John and Mary’s visits, eventually becoming John and Mary’s chair: their own little corner in the eccentric detective’s flat. There was a chair in their own home, a strange maroon _thing_ with a stiff wooden frame that Sherlock inexplicably loved and monopolized whenever he could be coaxed over for a visit: his own private haven in their home.

 

There were cases and take-away, Bond nights and home-cooked meals, Cludeo fights and epic chess tournaments, skip code texts and tea times with Mrs. Hudson. Above all, there was Sherlock, John, and Mary.

 

And they wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

***

 

“John,” Mary stood in the doorway of their spare bedroom, now fully converted into a nursery, one hand at the small of her back and the other stifling a grin. Her husband sidled up beside her, staring at his best friend, who was currently sitting in the middle of the nursery with twelve different brands of nappies spread out on the floor, scribbling furiously into a notebook.

 

“Sherlock, what the bloody hell are you doing?”

 

“Absorbency and total volume, John. According to my research, newborns and infants are prone to frequent bouts of nocturnal urination and defecation which, should the nappy not be of the right brand and fit, can lead the child to wake prematurely from their sleep cycle. Given the erratic sleep schedule of infants, any further disturbances will not only reflect poorly on the child’s health and development, but also that of the parents, who are required to attend to it. Therefore, I am endeavouring to discover which brand of nappy is the most absorbent and will hold the highest volume of urine without leaking, therefore prolonging the time spent sleeping, and not wailing needlessly, during the night.”

 

John laughed, long and loud, bracing himself against his wife as he gasped for air. It was the origami wedding napkins all over again. This was an endearing idiosyncrasy of Sherlock’s, this strange obsession over seemingly insignificant details. Mary loved it and treasured the small lapses in the detective’s normally aloof nature. It made him very human.

 

“Sherlock, you do realize that the baby isn’t due for three weeks?”

 

“Yes, and you are both still woefully unprepared. Even Mycroft couldn’t help but notice.” The doorbell rang and Sherlock rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath as he added more water to the nappies in front of him. John went to answer it, returning with Anthea and a box full of baby clothes.

 

“Mr. Holmes sends his regards and a few necessities to help welcome the arrival of your child. He also sends his regrets for missing the shower –”

 

“Probably because he was too busy rigging the Korean elections. Again,” Sherlock muttered, scribbling furiously.

 

“And has included a few extra gifts to atone for the absence,” the PA continued, ignoring the stroppy detective. She nodded to the newlyweds and left, Sherlock’s phone buzzing as the door closed behind her. He looked down at the screen, cheeks colouring as he gripped the mobile.

 

_Enjoying not getting involved? –MH_

 

“Oh, piss off, Mycroft,” he growled, rotating the nappies with violent jerks of his spidery fingers. John and Mary laughed, sorting through the contents of the box and cooing over the tiny articles of clothing they pulled from its depths. There were baby grows and booties, hats and small hand covers to keep their baby from scratching their face before they could cut their nails, and a few plush toys that were too adorable to have been picked out by the British Government himself.

 

“You know, I never would have pinned the Holmes brothers for the domestic type,” Mary mused, folding a tiny jumper.

 

“Shh. They’ll hear you and take away all of our nice things,” John stage whispered, grinning down at the detective’s scowl.

 

“I will corrupt your child irrevocably if you ever insinuate mine or my brother’s alleged propensity for sentiment ever again,” Sherlock threatened, snapping his notebook closed with a snort.

 

“Yes, yes, big, bad detective and the big, bad politician. Caring is not an advantage and all that rubbish.” Mary waved her hand dismissively, pecking Sherlock on the cheek as he tried to flounce from the room. He started, staring at the heavily pregnant woman before plopping back down on the floor.

 

“You know, if I’d known it was that easy to shut him up, I would have started doing that ages ago,” John deadpanned, cracking a smile at Sherlock’s snort of derision.

 

“Well, you wouldn’t have married me if you had,” Mary teased, waddling from the room as the best friends shuffled their feet awkwardly at the implication.

 

***

 

John crumpled the piece of paper between his hands, delighting in the small, isolated destruction he was creating. As he worked the paper over and over in his hands, folding and unfolding, crumpling and smoothing it out, the texture changed, the oils of his skin seeping into the rumpled surface and making it soft.

 

“Your procrastination remains one of your strongest suits, John.”

 

“Piss off, Sherlock,” the doctor sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s harder than it looks.”

 

“It’s a name, John. Surely even you can conform to pedestrian tradition long enough to settle on a satisfactory proper noun for your spawn.”

 

“Like your parents?”

 

“…uncalled for. My parents are an exception to the rule. _Every_ rule.”

 

“I don’t know, Sherlock. Christ, I’m not ready for this.” John folded his hands, leaning over the desk on his elbows as he contemplated the crumpled list. “I’m going to be responsible for another _human being_ in a matter of _days_.”

 

“You are ready, John. If I have ever seen two people so perfectly suited to being parents, more so than any other pairing on the planet, it would have to be you and Mary.”

 

John blinked, cocking his head as he took in the prone form of his best friend on the sofa. Although he appeared nonchalant, there was the telltale pink tinge to his cheeks that revealed his embarrassment over the expression of sentiment. “Besides, you’ve had enough practice dealing with my tantrums that parenthood should be a metaphorical walk in the park by comparison,” he added, staring anywhere but at John.

 

“Ta, Sherlock. That means a lot.”

 

They spent the rest of the afternoon in horribly English silence and ignoring the exchange or debating their latest case.

 

It was fine. It was all fine.

 

***

 

“Sherlock,” Mary tapped the detective on the shoulder, stroking her gravid belly. “Are we…alright?”

 

The brunette blinked, tilting his head as he scrutinized the blonde’s expression. Guilt and remorse lingered around the corners of her mouth, fear dipped into the creases by her eyes.

 

“Of course. I thought that we’d already assessed that you and John are perfect for one another and I am wholly supportive of your union.”

 

“I know, but… _our_ relationship is…complicated. And there’s about to be a child joining our ragtag little trio. I just…I want the baby to know that it’s loved and…”

 

“Mary,” Sherlock took tiny, trembling hands in his own, perching on the top of his desk to bring them level with one another. “This,” he gestured towards his chest with their joined hands. “Won’t affect the baby. To quote a very brilliant man who keeps us both from being ‘not good’,” Mary laughed. “It’s fine. It’s all fine.

 

“Now, back to more important matters. In my research into the different brands of formula available…”

 

***

 

Angelo had welcomed Mary into his restaurant with the same enthusiasm he’d shown John on that first dinner over five years ago. He slipped her extra desserts as the pregnancy progressed, winking slyly and telling her that a fed baby made for a happy mother. The three of them frequented the restaurant in different combinations – John and Sherlock, Mary and John, Sherlock and Mary, or by themselves – but the most common sighting was the three of them gathered around the small window table, smiling and laughing over delicious food. With a candle – more romantic. There were always leftovers, as Sherlock was still terribly finicky when it came to fueling his transport, which happily lived in the Watsons’s fridge, packed up by Angelo and sent with them for the walk home.

 

It was something of a tradition to spend their post-case celebrations in the quaint restaurant, complimenting Sherlock’s deductions and marveling over the stupidity of certain Yarders. John’s favourite case moment had been when a seething Mary had shown up on the scene and chewed out Sgt. Donovan for her behaviour towards Sherlock. Surprisingly enough, the comments stopped and the women became close friends.

 

“Honestly, Sherlock, how do you do it? Some of the connections you make seem impossible, and yet, they make so much sense!”

 

“People see, but they don’t _observe_ , Mary. There are many things about an individual that reveal their innermost secrets – every persona which they present to the public as a means of deception is simply a facet of their own personality. If you can find the root of the deception, you can find the person behind the mask.”

 

“Still. The connection between the shoe laces and the hangings was bloody brilliant!”

 

It was odd, to hear the same praises that John showered over Sherlock constantly flow freely from Mary’s lips. They warmed him, just as John’s did, but it was a different warmth, one of kinship and respect, rather than the pull and heat of symbiosis.

 

“Careful, Mary. We want his head to fit out the door after dinner.” They all laughed, forks clattering against their plates. A shrill ringing wormed its way out of Mary’s pocket and she hauled herself from the booth to take the call, the front door slipping closed behind her. The two men watched her pace the sidewalk and laugh, her breath leaving small puffs of steam in the crisp air. Her red coat was nearly too tight, the buttons straining against the baby nearly ready to join their strange little family.

 

Something flickered across Mary’s face as she spoke and Sherlock surged to his feet, her name wrenched from his lips as the gunshot rang out, sending the crowd outside running in all directions, screaming in fear. Mary dropped, John and Sherlock shoving their way to her side.

 

“999. John, call 999.” Sherlock pressed his hands to the wound in her chest, blood bubbling between his fingers. “JOHN!” John stared at his wife, shaking all over as his fingers struggled to retrieve his mobile.

 

The seconds trickled by as they waited for the ambulance, Sherlock’s scarf ripped from his neck as a makeshift bandage, the blue darkening to crimson, Mary’s tiny inhales gurgled and shallow. Tiny rivulets of blood slipped from her lips, staining her skin as she struggled to breathe.

 

When the ambulance arrived, John and Mary were rushed away in a flurry of sirens and sharp orders, leaving Sherlock, bloodied and frantic, on the pavement. His white skin was stained, rusted; his verdigris eyes wide, manic. The black town car appeared like a shadow, swallowing the shaking detective and spitting him out at the A&E, the tapping of an umbrella following him through the halls to John’s side.  Despite the echoes of posh tones pulling strings, there was no comfort to be had as they hunkered down in hard plastic chairs, waiting. Tan fingers found red, intertwining on blood-stained denims.

 

Two lives hung in the balance.

 

Four lives.

 

Because, if there was no Mary, there was no baby.

 

If there was no Mary, there was no John.

 

And if there was no John…

 

Well, then there was no Sherlock.

 

***

 

Time.

 

Seconds.

 

Minutes.

 

Hours.

 

Days.

 

Weeks.

 

Years. 

 

Centuries.

 

Eons. 

 

Eternity.

 

Sherlock had lost track of how much time had passed since Mary had been shot. Since she’d be taken to the hospital. Since he’d found John there, waiting.

 

John’s fingers were clamped around his own, cutting off the circulation, restricting the flow of blood until there was only the prick of dying nerves and the numbness of asphyxiated tissue.

 

His mind reeled, his brain replaying the scene over and over from every angle. There was the cardinal gleam of Mary’s jacket, the spectral exhales of breath, the narrowing of the creases around her eyes.

 

Staring at something.

 

At someone.

 

Recognition.

 

Fear.

 

Acceptance.

 

There was the bloom of carmine across her breast, the splay of alabaster fingers, the flash of blue clamped over the wound.

 

Pressing against her body.

 

Trying to keep her alive.

 

Breathe.

 

Please.

 

Live.

 

There were many times when Sherlock had held someone’s life in his hands. Some of those moments haunted him still. There was the pink phone, the pips, the terrified voices on the other end of the line. His pride had cost one woman her life, his apathy had nearly killed them all. He’d pursued kidnappers and serial killers, homicidal maniacs and nefarious blackmailers. Human lives had been carelessly dropped into his lap and he was ashamed to say that, more often than not, he had not seen them as people, but as puzzle pieces.

 

Until they thanked him for his brilliance.

 

Or graced the gleaming tables of Molly’s morgue.

 

But Mary hadn’t been a puzzle piece. Her life _mattered_.

 

Perhaps, it was a sense of obligation, repaying a debt. When Mary had shot him, she’d called for an ambulance, had minimized the damage, had saved his life. The tables had been turned, but Sherlock hadn’t pulled the trigger. No, that would have been kinder. Had he held the gun, Mary would have stood a chance. Had he held the gun, Mary would have lived. But he hadn’t pulled the trigger. He’d been left to try and repair the damage.

 

And he couldn’t shake the feeling that his best hadn’t been enough.

 

When the surgeon emerged from the ominous doors of the OR, Sherlock knew that he’d failed.

 

Mary had shot him in the chest to save his life.

 

Sherlock had locked her blood inside of her lungs and watched her drown.

 

The words were discordant: the pitch was too shrill, the vowels too long. John screamed, and Sherlock held him dazedly. John cried, and Sherlock sacrificed his shoulder to mop up the tears. The surgeon led them away, and Sherlock kept him upright.

 

Sherlock Holmes could count, on one hand, the number of times that he had been rendered utterly and intensely speechless.

 

The first had been on his sixth birthday, when his parents had presented him with a wriggling, yipping, russet ball of fluff that had sprawled over his lap and licked the shock from his face.

 

The second had occurred when he felt his best friend take his final breath as he buried his face in the faded fur; a shuddering sigh that haunted his dreams for years to come.

 

The third took place in the kitchen of 221B Baker Street, when his second ever best friend asked him to stand beside him as he promised forever to his fiancé, to give a speech at his wedding as a means of reparation and affirmation of their unique friendship.

 

The fourth was when said best friend and his former assassin wife asked Sherlock to be the godfather of their unborn child and made him a legal guardian in their stead should, God forbid, anything ever happen to them.

 

The fifth was when the doctors directed their attention to a basin with a mewling infant swaddled in its depths and he held his widowed best friend as he laid eyes on his daughter – Sherlock’s goddaughter – for the first time.


	2. The Blind Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock watched John fade, little by little, day by day, and he finally understood.
> 
> This was a man who weighed his gun in his palm when he woke in the morning.
> 
> This was a man who tasted the barrel of his Browning before he went to bed at night.
> 
> This was a man whose world had collapsed in on itself and left him behind in the ruin and rubble, bleeding and broken.
> 
> This was John after the Fall.
> 
> But Mary was not coming back.
> 
> There were no more miracles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there!
> 
> Here's chapter 2 and some notes:
> 
> Ava Grace Watson is the name I chose for John and Mary's daughter. It sounded nice and I liked that the name "Ava" means "life."
> 
> Lots of angst and some fluff here.
> 
> Enjoy!

“I need your help.”

 

There was silence, long and heavy, before a sharp inhale crawled through the speaker of the phone.

 

“Anything. I will give you _anything_. Just…please.” 

 

“Of course, brother mine.”

 

The reluctance with which Sherlock disconnected the call spoke volumes, his tiny hitch of breath was thanks in and of itself.

 

***

 

No matter how many times he showered, no matter how hard he scrubbed, he would never be able to erase Mary’s blood from his hands. It clung to the whorls of his fingertips, lurked in the spaces between his tendons, marred his cuticles, tainted his nails, and sank deep into the lines of his palms until his hand was a study in contrasts: light and dark, snow and blood, flesh and sin. The water ran pink as he lathered his skin, spiraled down the drain as he abraded layer after layer of his epithelial cells – epidermis, dermis, down into subcutaneous fat, muscle, and bone – watching his own blood follow Mary’s down the drain. His knuckles and arms were raw, his face stung, his legs throbbed – he was an exposed nerve, the entire world an uncontained stimulus that left him shaking.

 

_I’ve never made a vow in my life, and after tonight, I never will again. So here, in front of you all, my first and last vow. Mary and John: whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will_ always _be there,_ always _, for the three of you._

 

“Don’t get involved,” he whispered, wiping water from his eyes. “Caring is not an advantage. Love is a chemical defect found on the losing side.” It was a mantra. He repeated it over and over until the water ran cold and his teeth started to chatter.

 

_I’ve never made a vow in my life, and after tonight, I never will again. So here, in front of you all, my first and last vow. Mary and John: whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will_ always _be there,_ always _, for the three of you._

 

He’d failed. Now, he was left with a shattered best friend and a broken vow.

 

Caring was not an advantage.

 

_I’ve never made a vow in my life, and after tonight, I never will again. So here, in front of you all, my first and last vow. Mary and John: whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will_ always _be there,_ always _, for the three of you._

 

But he cared. God help him, he did.

 

***

 

“She’s beautiful, John,” Sherlock whispered, rocking the newborn gently. Her face was red and wrinkled, her mouth pursed and rooting as he stroked his fingers down her face. She was so small, so fragile, so perfect. He closed his eyes and breathed in her soft scent as his best friend stared off into oblivion.

 

They were back in 221B, all of John’s things reorganized upstairs, all of Mary’s things in storage. Mrs. Hudson puttered about, her eyes lingering on John’s gaunt frame. He hadn’t eaten more than a few bites since Mary, hadn’t slept more than a handful of minutes since the A&E. Sherlock had to force him to bathe, to eat, to dress, to attempt proper sleep. Their roles were reversed and Sherlock hated it; hated the pain than stretched every line of his friend’s body, hated the frailty that lingered in his joints as though the lightest touch would cause him to shatter. He watched John become a withered husk of a man, his eyes dead, his soul haunted, as he twirled his wedding band around and around on his finger until it gleamed.

 

Sherlock watched John fade, little by little, day by day, and he finally understood.

 

This was a man who weighed his gun in his palm when he woke in the morning.

 

This was a man who tasted the barrel of his Browning before he went to bed at night.

 

This was a man whose world had collapsed in on itself and left him behind in the ruin and rubble, bleeding and broken.

 

This was John after the Fall.

 

But Mary was not coming back.

 

There were no more miracles.

 

***

 

“Why are you here, Mycroft?” Sherlock murmured, his voice flat as he balanced a mewling, red-faced baby in one hand and a cooling bottle in the other. There was no disdain, no vitriol, no emotion as he addressed his brother. There was only tired resignation as he cared for a child that wasn’t his own while his best friend remained virtually catatonic in the upstairs bedroom.

 

“I brought you something,” Mycroft extended his hand, a small manila envelope catching the light from the fire. “Seeing as Dr. Watson is currently…indisposed, I came to the conclusion that this would be far safer in your hands which, brother mine, is saying something.”

 

“My hands are a bit full at the moment.”

 

“I’ll leave it here, then.” He deposited the envelope onto the end table, rising from Sherlock’s chair in the half-light. Mycroft was halfway out the door when he turned, fixing Sherlock with a pitying gaze. “I warned you not to get involved,” he whispered, uncharacteristically sentimental as he watched his brother feed the baby.

 

“And yet, here we are, a newborn in my arms and you doing _legwork_.”

 

“Be careful, Sherlock.” He straightened his lapels, adjusting his cuffs as he regained his composure. Mycroft tapped his umbrella twice, nodding to himself as he placed his foot on the top stair.

 

“I won’t thank you…for this. I won’t.” Sherlock’s back was turned, his attention focused on the little bundle in the crook of his elbow.

 

Mycroft left, an understanding passing between them. Another box of formula and nappies arrived the next morning along with the number of a pediatrician and a full background check.

 

***

 

It happened one day, nearly two months after Mary’s death. She cried and the light came back into John’s eyes.

 

She cried, and John answered.

 

“I’m sorry, little love,” he sobbed, cradling the squalling child in his arms. “I’m so sorry, Ava.”

 

Sherlock watched him from the door, a warm bottle in one hand.

 

“You read the files.” It wasn’t a question.

 

John nodded, wiping his eyes and reaching for the formula. Ava suckled greedily, her tiny lips clamped around the nipple as her father fed her.

 

“Christ. When did she get so big?” His face was sad, his heart aching. Slowly, his medical brain kicked in and he stared at Sherlock in horror. “Oh, God. You’ve been doing it all; the feedings, the 2 am nappy changes, the colic, the baths…”

 

“Ava is well behaved. There was no trouble,” he lied. He had never been so afraid in his life. When Ava had cried, Sherlock had sought out Mrs. Hudson. The landlady had quickly become an honorary grandparent and taught Sherlock everything there was to know about handling a baby. He’d copied every scrap of information into a new room in his mind palace named after his goddaughter, surfing parent forums as she fed, reading books while she napped, and fearing that he would do everything wrong and that Ava would suffer for his ignorance.

 

The little girl began to wail and John burped her, his calloused palm tapping her back until she dribbled over the worn shoulder of his pyjamas. He didn’t seem to mind.

 

“Ava Grace Watson,” Sherlock murmured as he watched John make up for lost time with his daughter. “I will keep my vow. I won’t let you down again.”

 

***

 

Ava was beautiful, of that John was certain. She’d (thankfully) inherited the best of both parents through the nose, but she was practically a miniature version of her late mother, from her wide Bambi eyes to the minuscule dip of her upper lip. Soft, downy blonde hairs puffed up from her tiny head, the beginnings of curls appearing at the end, like Mary’s hair when she’d first work up in the mornings. John loved to run his palm over her head from frontal lobe to occipital, cradling her small frame gently in his arms.

 

Sometimes, John would run the tips of his fingers over her tiny face as she slept, memorizing her features by touch alone. His hands dwarfed her, but Sherlock’s consumed her, his long fingers and wide palms enfolding her into the warmth of his body as he paraded her around, singing softly or talking animatedly about all manner of things.

 

He was surprisingly good with children, being an overgrown five-year-old himself, but John appreciated it more than he could ever say. He’d saved Ava from John, saved her from the miasma of depression that still clung to his skin in a tight veneer of sorrow and heartache.

 

He never said ‘thank you’; he didn’t need to. Sherlock could deduce it, anyway. He always knew what John was thinking.

 

If only Mary were there to make it all complete.

 

***

 

“No.”

 

“What?”

 

“Wrong. Give her here.”

 

“Sherlock, what are you on about?”

 

“Give me the baby, John.” The detective held his arms out, waiting for his flatmate to comply.

 

“What? Why?”

 

“Because there is no way that she is leaving the house looking like _that_ ,” he sneered, snatching the little girl from John’s arms. “I know that you are not the most fashion conscious individual on the planet, but do refrain from inflicting your rather appalling tastes on your offspring.”

 

“Exactly what is wrong with her outfit, Sherlock?”

 

“Aside from the fact that the snaps are crooked and the colour is atrocious?”

 

“Yes,” John sighed, folding his arms over his chest.

 

“The fit is wrong, the cut is horrendous, and it has _sparking kittens_ on it. Kittens, John!” Sherlock looked offended by the concept, as if the tiny white balls of fluff were a personal slight.

 

“It’s made for little girls, Sherlock. Of course it has kittens.”

 

“The notion that a particular gender is confined to certain brackets of the animal kingdom and a select portion of the colour wheel is both outdated and misogynistic. I refuse to allow Ava to be subject to such idiocy. You are henceforth banned from dressing her,” the brunette declared, flouncing up the stairs to John’s room and slamming to door behind him.

 

“You are aware that that is still _my_ bedroom and you are invading _my_ space?” he shouted up the stairs, grabbing his jacket.

 

“Irrelevant,” came the reply, followed by a delighted squeal. Definitely not Sherlock’s. They emerged a few minutes later with Ava outfitted in a tiny blue dress with white stockings, a matching headband smoothing down her miniature curls. Sherlock held a pair of black shoes and a navy jacket in one hand, the baby nestled in his other arm. She looked adorable and perfectly coordinated.

 

“There. Much better,” the detective grinned, looking unbearably smug.

 

“What happened to ‘outdated and misogynistic’ gender stereotypes?”

 

“My problem lies with the segregation of colours and animal familiars into ‘girl things’ and ‘boy things’. Complete nonsense; I wear aubergine all the time! This is a dress, John, and it is horrendously adorable, therefore, it will be placed on you offspring to showcase how beautiful she is.”

 

“Where did those even –”

 

“Mrs. Hudson. She, Ava, and I had a bit of an outing while you were at the surgery the other day. And the carrier came from my brother,” he explained, passing the beaming baby off to her father as he slipped on her shoes and her tiny coat. It looked suspiciously like his Belstaff, but more feminine and far less dramatic.

 

“Now. Shall we?”

 

“Ava is not a doll.”

 

“I never said she was,” Sherlock smirked, wrapping his scarf about his neck and strapping the baby carrier around his chest. He paused, glancing at John. “Did you want to carry her?”

 

“No, it’s fine. Here.” He passed Ava off to her godfather, laughing at the picture they made. “Off to the Tesco, then?”

 

“I was thinking Regent’s Park.”

 

“Lay on, MacDuff.”

 

***

_Has all the paperwork been taken care of? –SH_

_Yes. It is in the final stages of processing now. –MH_

_Good. And the shooter? –SH_

_Still missing. I have my people on it. –MH_

_When you find him, don’t tell John. –SH_

_The thought never even crossed my mind. –MH_

_It crossed mine. And the ramifications were quite messy. So, make him disappear. –SH_

_Done. –MH_

_You owe me, brother mine. –MH_

_It was the lead technician on the Mayfair project. –SH_

_Look for the black watch. –SH_

_I need more baby supplies. –SH_

_The parcel will be delivered this afternoon. –MH_

 

***

 

“Sherlock?” John bounced the baby on his hip as he stared into the kitchen, confused.

 

“Yes, John?” The detective appeared from his room, his pyjamas rumpled as he stifled a yawn. Ava stuck a fist in her mouth, her jim-jam clad feet bumping against John’s waist as she squirmed.

 

“What happened to all the…” he gestured vaguely to the flat at large and the conspicuous absence of certain staple pieces.

 

“Scientific equipment and general hazardous paraphernalia? It has been temporarily relocated to 221C until I can find a more permanent solution.”

 

“Why?” John stared at his flatmate who was busy bustling around the kitchen to prepare a bottle for their smallest occupant.

 

“Honestly, John, you call yourself a doctor. Toxic experiments and sharp implements are generally considered ‘unsafe’ for small children, one of which happens to cohabitate with us at the moment. It was the most logical conclusion.”

 

“No, I mean…why?” Sherlock paused, meeting John’s lapis lazuli gaze with his own mercurial stare.

 

“I made a vow.”

 

And for John and Ava, that was all the reason he needed to do anything.

 

***

 

John Watson had seen a great many things in his life. He could render, in accurate detail, the exact colour of blood-soaked Afghani sand with any medium, he could sketch the different types of IED shrapnel wounds you would find in the med bay, and could paint gruesome renditions of bullet wounds on the canvas of human skin with his eyes closed. Without a second thought, he could tell you the different stages of blood loss, could describe the feeling of human entrails between your fingers, and could sing ballads about firefights and the desperation of dying men fighting with their last breath to make amends for the sins of a lifetime in the span of their final heartbeats.

 

He’d watched, transfixed, as his best friend had leapt from the roof of a hospital, seen the halo of crimson seeping through his curls onto damp pavement, stared as the body was wheeled away, and gaped as the casket was lowered into the cold earth. Sherlock had come back from the dead, and John had observed the way ivory skin split open beneath tan fists, examined the twin trails of blood over the swell of his cupid’s bow, and regarded the bloom of bruises along the chine of his jaw with a smug sense of satisfaction.

 

John had contemplated the likeness between Sherlock’s skin and starched hospital sheets after Mary had shot him in the chest, had scrutinized the spread of grey matter over the flagstone of Magnussen’s porch, and had followed the line of a plane into the sky as his best friend was exiled.

 

Nothing – no amount of blood, gore, and suffering – could have prepared him for the shock of coming home from a shift at the surgery to find his best friend sprawled over their sofa, willowy limbs akimbo, with Ava curled up on his chest, her tiny fingers wrapped around one of his long digits as his hand cradled her like a living blanket.

 

He slid to the floor, his legs giving out as he took in the beautifully domestic scene, tears slipping down his cheeks. John kissed the band of gold still firmly nestled at the base of his fourth finger, whispering to his departed wife that he wished she could be there to see this.


	3. The Great Adjustment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, there were moments where John was the Old John again: smiling and laughing, calling Sherlock brilliant, making tea ‘just because’, chatting with Mrs. Hudson after popping out to the shops.
> 
> Then, there was the New John, the grieving John. He would cry, when he thought Sherlock couldn’t hear him. He would get angry over the simplest of things because they reminded him of Mary. He would stare off into empty space, hands limp, jaw clenched, retreating into himself and leaving Sherlock alone.
> 
> Ava was a brilliant distraction, when Old John disappeared and left behind the New John. She was constantly growing and changing; never boring. Never.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings!
> 
> So...I really hate waiting for things. Frankly, I'm awful at it, so I have almost all the chapters for this story finished so that no one else has to wait!
> 
> This chapter rolls a lot of Ava's growth into one, focusing on a few major events, such as teething. It's a pretty Sherlock-oriented chapter in terms of narration and interaction with Ava. I like exploring that dynamic; I imagine he'd be very fond of children given how often they change and grow. Fascinating.
> 
> Also...hello, Sally! I do love a strong, independent female character who is a bad-ass and good at her job. Not a huge fan of the vindictive streak, but she's still an amazing female character whose been developed well in fanfiction. I wanted to give her a moment in this fic but still stay true to how she is on the show: she means well, but tends to be a bit abrasive.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“Sherlock, what is that?” John stared down at the oblong, fuzzy, black and yellow plush…thing in his daughter’s tiny hands.

 

“It’s _Apis mellifica_ , John, do pay attention.”

 

“It’s what?”

 

“A honeybee, John. A plush rendition of one of the most fascinating creatures on the planet.”

 

“Yes, but why is it in Ava’s mouth?”

 

“Why do children do anything, John? According to my observations, your daughter finds the colour yellow aesthetically pleasing and responds well to it, supported by her positive reaction to the happy face on our wall. That, in addition to the obsession of small children with plush objects, made it a relatively logical move to purchase the toy.”

 

John tickled his daughter, a bittersweet laugh pulling at the corners of his mouth as she squealed. “So, you bought her a plush bee…because it was logical?”

 

“…and it’s cute…”

 

The laugh was pure and joyous this time, crinkling the corners of John’s eyes and wiping away some of the darkness settled around his shoulders. Sherlock watched as he guffawed until tears were leaking from his eyes, Ava pouting at the lack of attention, her little mouth pursed.

 

“You’re mad,” John gasps. “You’re a complete nutter.”

 

“And for some reason, you keep coming back to me.”

 

“Ah ah bah ga!” Ava affirmed, rolling on her blanket and chomping on one antenna of her toy. “Ga ba ah.”

 

“An excellent point. John, tea?”

 

“The two of you are unbelievable.”

 

“AH BAH DA!”

 

“And thirsty. Ava requires her next feeding. It stands to reason that your offspring would become emotionally unsettled when hungry. I have witnessed evidence to support a direct correlation between your father’s disposition and hypoglycemia, Ava,” he told his goddaughter gravely, scooping her onto his lap. “Unfortunately, you appear to have inherited that unfortunate trait.”

 

“Four month olds require between 3 and 5 feedings a day, Sherlock,” John called from the kitchen, the rush of the tap heralding the requested beverages.

 

“Then why do you need to eat so much? You’re no longer an infant.” Ava chewed the bee thoughtfully, kicking her feet against Sherlock’s trousers.

 

“Unlike you, Mr. The-rest-is-just-transport, I actually require food in order to _not_ pass out.”

 

“Dull. One loses excessive amounts of time in the preparation and consumption of food. And it redirects blood flow away from the brain to the stomach, compromising my thinking process.”

 

“You never complain about Mary’s cooking, you –”

 

Silence fell, a yawning chasm between them as John stiffened, his words turning his blood to ice water in his veins. Mary.

 

God, if only he’d…

 

He left the kettle screaming on the hob, and climbed the stairs, shutting himself in his room. Sherlock watched him go, Ava squirming on his lap.

 

“Ba ba ba da,” she babbled, looking up at the detective with a tiny frown.

 

“Yes. I hate it when he looks sad, too.”

 

***

 

The pub was a rancorous cacophony of drunken shouts and clanking glass, the thump of darts and the crack of pool cues against the balls a heavy base that pounded in John’s ears. It was dark and dank and crowded and hot, but John loved every minute of it.

 

“So,” Greg set the pints down on the table, sliding one across the scratched surface to John. “We’re going to have a proper chat.”

 

“Not very English of you, mate,” John laughed, taking a long pull from his glass.

 

“Some things just need to be done. How are you handling all…” he gestured to the room at large, but John understood.

 

“It’s…well, it’s bloody awful, but I don’t wake up in the mornings with a gun in my hand.” The ‘anymore’ hung between them, unspoken and dutifully ignored.

 

“And the little tyke?”

 

“She’s beautiful. God, Greg, she’s perfect. Here,” he fished out his mobile, flicking his thumb over the screen. He passed it to the DI, watching his weathered face melt as he flipped through the photos.

 

“She looks just like Mary,” he breathed, taking in the shy baby smiles and sleeping face. He paused, thumb hovering over the screen as he came across a shot of Sherlock, his face relaxed and open, staring down at a sleeping baby nestled against that ridiculous purple shirt, ignoring the large patch of drool on his shoulder. He looked…happy, at peace. It was an expression that Greg had only ever seen on the detective’s face twice before: when John had called him ‘brilliant’ at the first crime scene and when John had chinned the Chief Superintendent of the Yard for insulting Sherlock.

 

After all of the times that he’d picked Sherlock up out of the gutter (literally _and_ metaphorically, thank you very much), after all of the close calls and ODs and stints in rehab, he’d never thought that Sherlock could ever look like that. He’d thought that maybe, just maybe, all of the horrible shite he’d dealt with had broken him.

 

But that photo. That was something else.

 

“How’s Sherlock adjusting? To the baby and all?” Greg stared at the photo a little longer, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

 

“He’s quite taken with her. Treats it like an ongoing experiment, charting her progress and all. He seems pretty fixated on her speech, though. Sherlock won’t talk to her like an infant and has her practising sounds.”

 

“Sounds like he’s really getting into the whole parenthood thing.”

 

John froze, his glass halfway to his mouth as Greg’s words sank in. It was true. Sherlock had been more of a parent to Ava in those first months than John had, and it showed. Ava was smitten with the lanky detective and the affection went both ways.

 

And somehow, it felt right to think of Sherlock as one of her parents. He was her godfather, so it made sense that he would be involved. And it was _Sherlock_ , for God’s sake – he couldn’t resist a live-in experiment to fuss over, day and night. It even played into his insomnia.

 

He loved Ava. John could see it whenever he held her, whenever he fed her or rocked her to sleep. It helped to sooth the aching rift in John’s heart. It helped pull the edges of his ragged wounds together and staunch the bleeding.

 

It helped him feel a little closer to being whole again.

 

“Sorry, mate, I didn’t mean –”

 

“No. You’re right. Sherlock’s been…there for her. He’s a great man, Greg. And he’s become a really good one, too.”

 

***

 

“John, dear, there’s a woman at the door for you,” Mrs. Hudson tutted, fussing with a tray of tea and biscuits as the doctor padded down the stairs, his daughter babbling away in his arms. He found Sally Donovan hovering awkwardly in the front hall, arms folded over her chest.

 

“Hello, Dr. Watson,” she murmured, eyes fixed on the baby in his arms.

 

“Hello, Sgt. Donovan…no, sorry. Hello, Sally.” He smiled stiffly, remembering the nights that Sally had come by with small things for Mary and chatted in the front hall. The women had gone for coffee, once or twice, both strong-minded and independent and loving having a like-minded individual to confide in. “This is Ava Grace. Say hello, little love.” Ava drooled over her bee, staring at the strange woman in their home.

 

“How are you?” Sally inclined her head, eyes narrowed.

 

“Fine, fine, I suppose. Busy, with this one, but,” he shrugged, shifting Ava in his arms.

 

“I brought this. For her.” She held out a small bag, her face pinched. “I thought she might like it.”

 

“Oh, ta, Sally,” John huffed, snagging the proffered bag with his free hand. “That’s kind of you.”

 

“I’m sorry!” The policewoman blurted, jamming her hands into her pockets. “I’m sorry for everything.”

 

John stared at her, seeing the brash, headstrong copper in a new light as she worried her lip between her teeth. “Ta, Sally. That means a lot.” She nodded, quick and sharp, turning and bolting out the door.

 

He’d forgotten what it was like, to have people afraid that you would break, to have them run away from your suffering because they didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t a very nice feeling.

 

***

 

Sometimes, there were moments where John was the Old John again: smiling and laughing, calling Sherlock brilliant, making tea ‘just because’, chatting with Mrs. Hudson after popping out to the shops.

 

Then, there was the New John, the grieving John. He would cry, when he thought Sherlock couldn’t hear him. He would get angry over the simplest of things because they reminded him of Mary. He would stare off into empty space, hands limp, jaw clenched, retreating into himself and leaving Sherlock alone.

 

Ava was a brilliant distraction, when Old John disappeared and left behind the New John. She was constantly growing and changing; never boring. Never.

 

“Your mother was an amazing woman, Ava,” he murmured into her soft hair. “When I hurt your Daddy, when I…left, she picked up the pieces and put him back together again.” Ava reached for his curls, her cornflower blue eyes wide. For some inexplicable reason, she enjoyed grabbing small fistfuls of his curls and pulling. Hard.

 

But she was John’s daughter and Sherlock was responsible for her mother’s death, so he let her. Even if it hurt quite a lot.

 

“I don’t think I can do that,” Sherlock confessed, wincing at a particularly vicious tug. “I don’t know if I can take a broken person and reassemble all of their jagged edges into a fractured replica of their former self. That takes quite a bit of caring, you see. I’m not exactly qualified for that.”

 

“Ah?”

 

“Yes. I need fixing, too.”

 

***

 

“AAAH!” Sherlock observed the blue baby spoon contemplatively, scrutinizing the curve and the contents of its concave bowl as if it were an experiment.

 

“No, I don’t understand why grownups insist that peas are edible in _any_ form, much less pureed into mush and spooned into your mouth as though you were an invalid.”

 

“Eee aaah?” Ava wrapped one hand around the spoon and yanked, spraying green goop all over Sherlock’s crisp white shirt.

 

“I agree. Banana it is, then.”

 

“Sherlock, are you talking to the baby again?” John poured hot water into two mugs, the clinking of the spoon against ceramic mugs drowned out by delighted baby squeals as Ava attempted to finger paint a vegetarian tableau all over Sherlock’s shirt.

 

“Obviously, John. How else is she going to learn proper grammar, syntax, conjugation, pronunciation, and the like unless we speak to her _properly_?”

 

“People tend to talk simply to children so that they understand. You know, high-pitched voices and speaking in the third person.”

 

“That is absolutely preposterous. Ava is fully capable of understanding complex sentences. Isn’t that right, Miss Watson?”

 

“Aah,” Ava replied, her tiny face solemn as she looked at John. The moment was ruined when she turned her attention back to Sherlock and mashed pea puree into his errant curls.

 

John laughed as Sherlock huffed in mock annoyance, rising from his chair to go clean himself up. John fished his daughter out of her chair and wet a flannel to clean her off.

 

“Be gentle with him, Ava. He loves you so.”

 

“Ee aah?” She slapped one damp – but mercifully clean – hand against the end of his nose. He kissed her palm and nibbled her fingers, pulling tiny squeals from the squirming child.

 

“Of course, little love. Daddy loves you, too.”

 

***

 

 “Oh. Hello, Molly.”

 

“Sherlock! Why is there a baby in the morgue? Oh my God, you’re not going to show her the bodies are you? That’s awful, Sherlock! You can’t corrupt babies like that! That’s just –”

 

“I came to see you, actually,” he interrupted, shifting Ava in his arms. “Ava, this is Dr. Molly Hooper, a good friend of mine. She helped me fake my death to help protect your Daddy.” The little girl gurgled and reached up a hand to smack Sherlock’s face. “Yes, I know. Not good. But it had to be done. Molly, this is Ava Grace Watson. John’s daughter.”

 

Molly blinked staring at the tiny baby girl who cooed at the detective as he rocked her gently. “Oh.”

 

“I…I need your help. John is…it’s complicated, but I was hoping you might be able to advise me on how to approach a grieving friend, seeing as you deal with some of the families who come in to identify the deceased. There are good days, but most of the time, he is withdrawn and…depressed. How do I fix it?”

 

“Sherlock, you can’t _fix_ grief,” the pathologist sighed, extending a finger towards the squiring child. “It has to run its course. You know, the seven stages, and all of that.” Ava squawked, grabbing for Molly’s hair.

 

“AH!”

 

“No, she won’t give you her accessories, not even for an experiment.”

 

“Ee ah?” Ava reached for the pathologist again and Sherlock surrendered her to the shorter woman, settling back against the counter.

 

“Still a no, regardless of whether or not you compliment her, either. She’s too smart for that.”

 

“Hello, Ava,” Molly cooed, tickling the little girl through her purple cardigan. “It will take time, Sherlock. John just lost his wife and now he’s trying to raise a baby on his own.” The detective bristled and glared, folding in on himself. “Oh. He’s back at Baker Street, then? And…”

 

“And I am currently helping with Ava’s upbringing, yes.”

 

“But…you’re…”

 

“I’m what?”

 

“Well, that’s a bit…odd, raising a child with your widowed flatmate. But then, you and John were never normal. And I suppose Harry wouldn’t really be able to help.”

 

“Is it odd?” Sherlock cocked his head, looking pale. “Is that not something that people do?”

 

“Raising a child is usually a thing that couples do, or single parents with the help of some relatives, but…if this is what’s best for little Ava, then…” Molly shrugged, letting the baby gum at her necklace.

 

“But…if I hadn’t…He was very lost after she died, Molly. He forgot about Ava.” Sherlock reached out and extricated his goddaughter from Molly’s arms, settling on a stool with the child on his knee.

 

“Oh. Um, then…then you did the right thing, helping him out. Now, all you can do is keep caring for both of them as John starts to get better.”

 

“I don’t know how,” he whispered, hugging Ava close and burying his nose in her soft curls.

 

“You’re already doing a good job, Sherlock. Just…do what John would do, if the roles were reversed.”

 

“Unlikely. I wouldn’t have had a wife.”

 

“Just ask yourself ‘what would John do?’ and go from there.”

 

The detective nodded, unfolding his lanky frame and passing his goddaughter back to the pathologist as he slipped the baby carrier back over his chest. “Thank you, Molly.”

 

“It will be okay, Sherlock.” The woman smiled sadly, watching the care with which Sherlock settled Ava into the carrier. He would have been an amazing parent; he _was_ , for all intents and purposes, and she couldn’t help the small shiver of disappointment that he would never have that with her.

 

He left, Ava’s babbling fading away as they headed for home.

 

***

 

“John! John! JOHN!” The doctor dropped his toothbrush, sprinting from the loo to follow the frantic sound of Sherlock’s voice and his daughter’s piteous cries.

 

“What? What’s wrong?” Foam sprayed as he spoke, dribbling down his chin. Ava redoubled her wailing at John’s voice, her tiny hands grasping at the air between them.  

 

“She won’t stop crying! John, I can’t make her stop! I tried feeding her and rocking her and playing peek-a-boo and making Mr. Buzzbee dance and changing her nappy and she won’t stop!” The great consulting detective, one of the most brilliant minds on the planet, had deep shadows under his eyes, red rimming the shimmering verdigris stare. He looked exhausted, face gaunt and curls wild as he bounced his blubbering goddaughter. “I don’t know what’s wrong! I don’t know!”

 

“Alright, come here, little love,” John took his daughter, frowning as she turned her face away from him. He settled her at his waist, cupping her face gently. She cried and turned away, a tiny sliver of white peeping out from her reddened gums. “Oh, Ava. That looks sore. Come on. Daddy will make it better.”

 

“What? What is it? Is she alright? Is it serious? John? John?” Sherlock followed John down the hall and into the loo, staring at Ava.

 

“Teething, Sherlock. I have some gel for her.” John reached into the medicine cabinet, rooting about for the tube he’d picked up at the Tesco the other day on a hunch.

 

“Teething? But she’s only six months old!”

 

“Babies begin teething between about four and seven months old, so this is normal. We’ll need to get her a teething ring to help. Unless you want her to keep using your fingers.” He fussed with Ava, cooing nonsense to her as he wormed a finger into her mouth. She pouted, whining as he rubbed the gel over her swollen gums. Ava sniffled, even as the gel started to work, hiccupping and reaching for Sherlock with chubby hands. The detective scooped her back into his lanky embrace, brushing downy platinum curls from her damp forehead. Her nose was running and her eyes were bright and she milked it for all it was worth.

 

“She’s quite the drama queen” John mused. “I wonder where she learned _that_ from, eh Sherlock?”

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he quipped, striding back into the living room with Ava’s hands fisted in the collar of his shirt.

 

***

_I need you. This is a bad one. –GL_

_I can’t. –SH_

_Please? –GL_

_Not yet. –SH_

***

 

“Wrong! Watch me. ‘Da-dee’. Do you see the changes in the shape of the lips? Try again. ‘Da-dee’.”

 

“Ah ga!” Ava flailed, her limbs jerking as she lay on her stomach in the middle of the soft purple (lilac, John) blanket spread out on the floor of 221B’s sitting room.

 

“John, this child refuses to enunciate properly! I can’t make things out if she continues to babble and mumble.”

 

“She’s a baby, Sherlock.”

 

“Well, yes, but her lineage is at least moderately intelligent. I expect more from her.”

 

“She’s a _baby_ , Sherlock.”

 

“John, you are aware that I detest repetition.”

 

The doctor sighed, setting the paper aside and stooping to rescue the infant from Sherlock’s speech therapy sessions. “She’s a baby, Sherlock.”

 

“Now you’re just doing it on purpose,” he huffed, rolling onto his side and glaring up at the shorter man.

 

“Yup,” John popped the ‘p’, imitating his flatmate. “Come on, little love. Let’s leave the mad detective to his ramblings and get you a bath, yeah?” Ava squeaked, bouncing up and down in her father’s arms as they made for the hallway.

 

Sherlock rose from his artless lounge with a grace that no one over six feet tall should even possess and followed John into the loo. He loved watching John wrestle a wriggling, slippery, squealing baby into the tiny plastic tub. It was both entertaining and endearing to watch John’s (horrible) jumper get soaked by tiny flailing fists and spastic feet, to hear Ava’s shrill squeaks of delight as a rubber duck was squeezed in front of her face, her tiny hands grabbing at the toy as she grinned, her four teeth gnashing at the garish yellow head. It made him smile, filled his chest with an overwhelming warmth that spread through his body and left him feeling light and free.

 

He wanted this. It shocked him, made his eyes widen and his stomach drop. He wanted these stolen moments, these fleeting seconds filled with baby giggles and John’s booming laugh, craved the feeling of Ava nestled against his chest as he sang her to sleep, _needed_ to see the two Watsons happy and whole and safe in 221B.

 

He wanted to always be a part of it.

 

But he was just filling a hole, pretending that this was the future, that this was forever. It was wishful thinking, to assume that this would last. He wasn’t Mary; he was an usurper holding her place until the next woman came along and John left. Again.

 

Because it would happen. It was only a matter of time.

 

Eventually, John would fall in love again, and John would leave. He would take Ava with him and 221B would be empty.

 

Sherlock didn’t know if he could handle it a second time.

 

If there was no John Watson, there was no Sherlock Holmes.

 

Symbiosis.


	4. A Scandal in Domesticity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I love Mary,” he whispered, slipping the ring over his little finger, watching as it stuck on the second knuckle, just a little too tight. “I do. God, I love her so much, and I miss her, Sherlock. I miss her every minute of every day.”
> 
> “I…” Sherlock’s voice trailed off, his normally eloquent flatmate uncertain of how to deal with the overwhelming display of emotion. 
> 
> “Goodnight, Sherlock.” John downed the last of his whiskey and climbed the stairs, tiptoeing over the squeaky floor boards to avoid disturbing the slumbering infant. He slipped between the sheets, clutching the pillow to his chest with the spectre of his wife curled around his back.
> 
> Downstairs, Sherlock watched the dying embers of the fire winking off of the two delicate golden bands, feeling something strange building in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Salutations!
> 
> Getting there, slowly but surely.
> 
> First words and first steps are a big time for every parent. I hope I did that justice with the brief moments I gave those milestones in this chapter. I don't have any kids, so...
> 
> Mary's real name. Yeeeaaahhhh. The only thing I had to go on here was that she was probably not a UK citizen by birth, so I made up a name that sounded vaguely foreign, but no distinct nationality. I hope it's okay.
> 
> Almost done! Please stay with me!

“How long did it take you to fix all this up?”

 

“About six months,” Sherlock adjusted the dials of his microscope, hunched over a new table gracing the old kitchen of a now refurbished 221C. All of the detective’s lab equipment was haphazardly scattered about the room in Sherlock’s personal brand of organized chaos. “I solved four political cases for Mycroft to make it happen.”

 

“What about the body parts?”

 

Sherlock jerked his head towards one corner of the room where a stainless steel refrigerator stood, humming merrily as the brunette continued his work. John laughed, folding his arms over his chest. “Of course. You think of everything.”

 

It was a severe space dedicated to the Work, all hard edges and crisp lines, solved case notes pinned up to the walls of sitting room where they’d found Carl Powers’ shoes – a shrine of their successes. A small corner was darker, different, covered in photos and newspaper clippings of the cases that Sherlock had failed to solve in time – a memorial to the ones that were lost. John felt his heart give a violent twist as he caught sight of Mary’s photo on the far wall, dead center in a place of honour.

 

“Mary was a failed case?”

 

Sherlock paused, his fingers hovering over the microscope as John choked out his question. The detective turned to face his best friend, running a hand through his tousled curls. “No, Ava Grace Rosencrantz-Albert was a failed case. Mary was your wife and the mother of your daughter.”

 

“Then why is she there?”

 

“Because I don’t want to forget that I failed to solve her case and she suffered for it. I shot Magnussen thinking that would be the end of it, but it was only the beginning.”

 

_Why?_

_Because that’s where they sit. The people who come in here with their stories. The clients. That’s what you are, now, Mary. You’re a_ client _. This is where you sit and talk. And this is where we sit and listen and we decide if we want you or not._

He’d wanted her, the ex-assassin who’d shot his self-proclaimed sociopath of a best friend. It’s what he liked.

 

_Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?_

 

“Moriarty.”

 

“Yes.”

 

John stared at the photograph on the wall, his stomach roiling as he pieced it all together. “I should have killed him, when he strapped the bomb to my chest. I should have taken him out and saved us all the trouble.” He left, disappearing back up into the silence of 221B, his footsteps echoing through the building.

 

***

 

John stared into the hearth, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. Ava was asleep, the last strains of Sherlock’s violin lullaby floating down the stairs.

 

Time.

 

Seconds.

 

Minutes.

 

Hours.

 

Days.

 

Weeks.

 

Months.

 

Years.

 

Centuries.

 

Eons.

 

Eternity.

 

He tried. Really, he did. The first two months…well, he was ashamed to admit that he’d been too lost to acknowledge Ava’s existence. It was like the Fall all over again. He remembered the hours spent holed up in Baker Street, his face buried in Sherlock’s pillow, sobbing. He remembered the days spent lying on the sofa, staring up at the bullet holes in the wall, numb. He remembered the weeks without food and sleep and laughter and light.

 

Then, there had been the slow pull of the world. The pub nights with Mike and Greg, the tea with Mrs. Hudson, the raging benders with Harry, the shifts at the clinic.

 

And Mary.

 

She was…everything. God, she was. She’d filled the hole left behind by Sherlock’s ‘death’, pulled him from the mire of depression and guided him back from the brink. He’d held her hand instead of the trigger, he’d kissed her lips instead of the barrel of his gun, he’d tasted her mouth instead of gun oil, he’d bit her soft skin instead of a bullet.

 

It had taken months before he could touch her that way. Painfully awkward dates filled with bitter coffee and rigid chatter until, one night, she’d laid her hand on his arm and told him that it was okay to be angry, that it was okay to be sad, that it was okay to be hurt.

 

And it was.

 

It took a year to start dating again, a year and a half to meet Mary, and two to propose and move on. And when Sherlock had come back, it wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be. There was anger and betrayal and grief and pain, but he hadn’t killed him. So…that was something, at least.

 

The engagement ring felt small between his blunt fingers. He ran his thumb over the three delicate stones, his nail clicking against the metal band at the beginning and the end.

 

Three stones. Three years.

 

Coworkers. Lovers. Partners.

 

The beginning and the end.

 

“You found them.”

 

“You left them beside my chair.”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock cleared his throat, perching on the back of his chair with his bare feet tucked into the cushion, his maroon dressing gown flowing behind him like a cape. “Well, you’re not the most observant man on the planet, so I couldn’t be sure that you would pay attention to the envelope.”

 

His laugh was dark, hollow. “Yeah, I miss a lot of things.”

 

He ran his thumb over the three small stones, his nail clicking against the band at the beginning and the end.

 

Three stones. Three years.

 

The beginning and the end.

 

“I love Mary,” he whispered, slipping the ring over his little finger, watching as it stuck on the second knuckle, just a little too tight. “I do. God, I love her so much, and I miss her, Sherlock. I miss her every minute of every day.”

 

“I…” Sherlock’s voice trailed off, his normally eloquent flatmate uncertain of how to deal with the overwhelming display of emotion.

 

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” John downed the last of his whiskey and climbed the stairs, tiptoeing over the squeaky floor boards to avoid disturbing the slumbering infant. He slipped between the sheets, clutching the pillow to his chest with the spectre of his wife curled around his back.

 

Downstairs, Sherlock watched the dying embers of the fire winking off of the two delicate golden bands, feeling something strange building in his chest.

 

***

 

_Sherlock, we need you. –GL_

_Sherlock, answer your phone. –GL_

_Bloody hell, Sherlock, I’ve got a triple homicide, in a locked room, without any prints or trace evidence. Get your arse over to the scene. – GL_

_Address? – SH_

_Thank God. – GL_

***

 

Ava was asleep, her features softened by the golden glow of her bumblebee nightlight. John sat in the old rocker that Mrs. Hudson had bequeathed to them upon his return, watching over the slumbering infant from the shadows.

 

‘ _You’ve done beautifully, John,’_ Mary whispered, the phantom chill of fingertips brushing across his cheek. He shivered, leaning into the imagined touch, his heart aching. ‘ _She’s perfect.’_

 

“She’s just like you,” his breath hitched as he closed his eyes, calling forward the fading memories of Mary’s smiling face. It had softened around the edges, her features blurring like the end of a dream as daylight pulls you back into the land of the living. He clung to the fragments of their time together, grasping at the loose ends as they slipped further beyond his reach with every passing day. “I miss you. I miss you so much it hurts.”

 

‘ _I’m so sorry, John. I wish I could be there for you. For all of you.’_

 

“He’s trying, Mary, he really is. But…he’s not you.”

 

‘ _And I wasn’t Sherlock, after the Fall, but somehow, you found it in yourself to love me anyway.’_ There was a faint ghosting of air across his lips, warm and sweet, the faint aroma of _Claire-de-la-Lune_  filling the room.

 

John woke from his doze to an empty room and a drooling baby nestled in her crib. He scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed.

 

It was just a dream.

 

***

 

The discordant chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ filled the sitting room of 221B, soft smiles and brightly wrapped presents adorning the furniture.

 

“Blow out the candle, little love,” John set his hands on Ava’s tiny shoulders, blowing out the flame himself as one small fist came down to smash the cake in front of her. Everyone laughed, Mrs. Hudson retrieving a second cake that she’d stashed away, guarding it against the devastation of a one-year-old with a sweet tooth. Sherlock grinned, watching John help his daughter destroy the cake. It was a disastrous affair, frosting and tiny chunks of cake flying freely around the room as Ava waved her arms about. They would be finding cake crumbs all over the flat for weeks, but he didn’t mind. It was worth it.

 

“Boys, why don’t you get her cleaned up before the presents?” Mrs. Hudson passed a slice of cake to Greg, shooing the boys from the room.

 

“I’ll take her,” Sherlock grabbed his goddaughter, grunting as she smeared frosting over his face en route to the upstairs bedroom.

 

“Sha!”

 

“Yes, you can wear the black and white one if you promise to behave.” They disappeared into the hall, the click of Sherlock’s dress shoes on the stairs mingling with Ava’s incessant gibberish.

 

John smiled after them, feeling at peace. Greg clapped him on the shoulder, nodding shortly and shooting a glance up the stairs. “She’s got him wrapped around her finger.”

 

“She really does.”

 

“Takes after her Dad on that one, yeah?” The DI jabbed John in the ribs with an elbow, grinning around a bite of cake. “Still the only man I know who can get Sherlock Holmes to sit still for more than five minutes.”

 

“Give him a baby and he won’t be going anywhere until he figures out how childhood works.”

 

“Are you so sure the experiment is the only thing keeping him here?” John turned and watched Greg shrug, his features rearranged into an awkward pinch made him look as if his pants were too tight.

 

“It’s only been a year, Greg,” he twirled the golden band around his finger. It had grown increasingly dull over the past few months, the inside more polished than the outer ring from his nervous habit of twisting it when he was stressed.

 

“Yeah. But what a year.”

 

Molly let out a supersonic squeal that made both men wince, turning their attention to Sherlock, who was balancing a dolled-up Ava in his arms. She was wearing a frilled white dress with a pink sash and black trim, her blonde curls pinned back from her face with a pink barrette. The pathologist scooped the girl from Sherlock’s arms, peppering her face with kisses and cooing in a stereotypical baby voice about what a pretty girl Ava was. John sniggered at the expression of fond disgust on his flatmate’s face, letting Molly have her moment.

 

Their eyes met across the room and John felt his heart stutter. Sherlock’s face was warm and open, his mask gone as he smiled at John before returning his gaze to his goddaughter, laughing as she pulled on Molly’s necklace.

 

It was a perfect moment, and John hoarded it inside his head; his own precious gift on a special day.

 

***

 

“John! The baby gate!”

 

“I’m going, I’m going – no, Ava! Not the skull! Sherlock!”

 

“John! The stairs!”

 

“Christ! Ava, no! Not the mug! Sherlock!”

 

“ _John_! The lamp cord!”

 

“Ava, no! _Sherlock_!”

 

Mrs. Hudson pushed open the door of 221B, poking her head inside with her trademark ‘yoo-hoo’ and a tray of biscuits. John and Sherlock lay in a heap on the floor, a pouting Ava bouncing petulantly against Sherlock’s chest as he pinned her in place. The flat was immaculate, baby locks on all the cabinets and gates barring the doorways. It was reminiscent of Ava’s early crawling days – the papers stacked out of reach, the electronics cords secured to the floor, and the more…interesting decorations relocated to higher ground.

 

The landlady tittered softly, unlatching the gate and setting the tray in the kitchen. John grunted in thanks, not moving from his spot on the floor.

 

Yes, Ava was walking. They had officially descended into the hell of a fully mobile toddler.

 

“I wonder whether or not the lure of an object she desired would increase her average speed and rate of acceleration?” Sherlock turned his head, glancing up at his goddaughter with the ‘experiment face.’

 

“No.”

 

“But John –”

 

“Still no.”

 

***

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson! We’ll be back before bed.”

 

“Take your time, boys. We’ll be fine. Now, Ava, how about a biscuit?” They disappeared behind the door of 221A as John and Sherlock raced into a cab.

 

“A triple homicide, John! Oh, it’s Christmas!”

 

“Do you think that Ava will be okay without us?” It was their first joint case since Mary. Sherlock had gone solo for a while, but John felt that he was ready to get back into it again. They’d left Ava with Mrs. Hudson before, for trips to the morgue or just for a brief reprieve from the confines of the flat, but this was different. This was a _case_.

 

“She will be fine, John. She takes after you.” The detective shot John a reassuring smile before returning his attention to the streets of London whirling by as they drove towards the crime scene. Tiny droplets of rain pelted the windows, exploding like liquid fireworks across the glass. It was grey and cold and wet, but John felt the thrum of adrenaline brewing beneath his skin.

 

He was back, and it felt good.

 

It was something akin to slipping on an old jumper, watching Sherlock deduce at a scene: warm and comfortable, familiar in a way that made him feel at peace as it settled over his body. The detective snapped and glared, he berated the intelligence of the Yarders present on the scene, and he spewed a barrage of deductions that left John breathless.

 

“Brilliant.”

 

“Do you know you do that out loud?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Alright, you two, enough. What have you got for me?” Lestrade shoved his hands in his pockets and watched Sherlock pivot around the room.

 

“Find the twin brother. This was made to frame the fiancé, but the apartment is equipped for two left-handed individuals. It’s not uncommon for fraternal twins to share many physical characteristics, such as height and weight, even if they are not genetically identical. The foot prints on the rug share the same weight distribution as the fiancé, but the attack came from the _right_ hand side of the body, from the rear. The fracture to the skull and the angle of the impact indicate that the assailant was _right-handed_.”

 

“But how could a left-handed man inflict that injury?” John smirked, following Sherlock’s train of thought (for once).

 

“Exactly. Good, John. I’m glad _someone_ was paying attention. No left-handed individual would be able to deliver a blow at full strength on their non-dominant side, unless they were ambidextrous, but there is no evidence to support that theory around the flat – everything is left-hand dominant. There are no signs of any object, utensil, or piece of furniture being rearranged to accommodate right-handed tendencies.”

 

“So, the fiancée isn’t our killer,” Greg sighed, scratching the back of his head. “But his twin brother is?”

 

“Obviously. He killed the best man – a former lover of the bride-to-be – and framed his brother so that he could move in on the, now single, object of his obsession: the affianced girlfriend.”

 

“Wait, what?”

 

“Love is a far more vicious motivator than anything else on the planet, Lestrade. Desperate people will do anything for the ones they care for. Sentiment.”

 

There was no disdain when Sherlock talked about love, no condescension in the lines of his shoulders or the dip in his brow. He stated it as if he were discussing the weather: casual and bored, a logical explanation for all things.

 

But John saw the tightness around his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the twitch at his lips, and he knew. Somewhere, between the ‘while I’m flattered by your interest’ and ‘I will _always_ be there, _always_ , for the three of you’, Sherlock had found someone he cared about, someone for whom he would lower himself to the banal human concept of sentiment. He _cared_.

 

John kept his smile in place through the sharp twinge under his breastbone at the thought. He wasn’t ready to give Sherlock over to someone else.

 

Maybe he never would be.

 

***

 

“John.”

 

“Yes, Sherlock?”

 

“Phone.”

 

John sighed, abandoning his puppet show to serve his flatmate’s whims. “Where is it?”

 

“Jacket.”

 

“Honestly, Sherlock,” he grumbled, his hand already in the pocket and wrapping around the mobile. “There, you lazy git. Anything else?”

 

“Tea, please.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Ah?”

 

“Yes, your Daddy is quite accommodating. He makes everything better.” The detective slipped from the sofa to the floor in a languorous flop, taking John’s place as puppet master and making Mr. Buzzbee dance.

 

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” the doctor shouted from the kitchen. He returned six minutes later with a mug of tea for Sherlock and a sippy cup for Ava. John stopped by the detective first, setting the mug on the coffee table by his elbow.

 

“Uh!”

 

“One moment, little love. The tea is hot.” He turned and ruffled Sherlock’s curls in passing, squatting down beside the two children (because Sherlock really was an overgrown child most days).

 

“Jaaaanwwwwn,” Ava whined, making grabby hands at the cup. Both men stared at her in shock.

 

“Did she just…?”

 

“I believe so.”

 

“Jaaaawwwn. Uh!”

 

“No, Ava. He’ll only answer you when you call him ‘daddy.’ Grownups call him ‘John’,” Sherlock explained, plucking the juice from John’s hands and depositing it in Ava’s outstretched arms.

 

“Jaaawn…da…da?”

 

“Brilliant.”

 

“Yes, that’s right. John is ‘daddy,’ to you.”

 

“Dadadadadadadadadadadada!”

 

Sherlock turned and smirked over his shoulder at John, his eyes twinkling.

 

“I told you that speaking to her like an adult would pay off.”

 

“You do realize that the only reason she knows my name is because you call me for _everything_. It’s your equivalent of saying ‘please’, ‘thank you’, ‘you’re an idiot’, and ‘I cannot believe how utterly moronic the human populace can be, please put me out of my misery’ all at once.”

 

“You forgot ‘punch me in the face’, but that’s usually subtext,” Sherlock teased, turning his attention to Ava, who was attempting to set a world record for how fast a toddler could make juice disappear. All over the rug.

 

***

 

“Yes, I know, little love. Sherlock will be back soon. No, Ava, not the skull!”

 

“NO!”

 

“Yes, I know you want to play with Billy, but he’s Sherlock’s.” John placed the grinning skull back on the mantle, wondering how it had gotten mixed in with Ava’s toys, anyway. The little girl in question whined from her perch against Sherlock’s chair, stamping her slipper-clad feet indignantly. Her little blonde curls bounced with the movement, making a tiny halo around her head as she reprimanded her father for taking away her toy.

 

“Dada, no! NO!” She smacked the leather of Sherlock’s chair, clinging to the frame but never moving from her spot.

 

“I wonder where on earth you picked up your stroppy behaviour,” he groused, puttering about the flat as Ava shouted after him.

 

He made tea, keeping an eye on his tottering charge as she vacillated between chairs, not walking, but falling from cushion to cushion and arresting her momentum with chubby fingers against the fabric. It was adorable, and he found himself fiddling with the camera of his mobile, excited to show Sherlock the display when he returned. Ava took notice of his less than covert filming as waved, knowing full well that the video would be shown to everyone and that she would be fussed over as a result.

 

“Alright, little love. Enough clambering about. Let’s get you to bed, yeah?”

 

“No, Dada,” she stared at him gravely, her bottom lip jutting out.

 

“No, Ava. Not going to work this time. Daddy’s rather looking forward to bath time and a story.”

 

“Spash?” Her eyes were hopeful, her bottom lip quirked in a perfect imitation of Sherlock’s ‘John, I really, really, really, _really_ want this, make it happen _now_ ’ face. Also known as the reason why John had allowed body parts to remain in the fridge the first time they’d lived together.

 

“Yes, splash, splash. We can even do bubbles this time.”

 

“NO!”

 

“Alright, then. No bubbles.”

 

***

 

Ava Grace Watson stood gripping the edge of their battered coffee table (read: Sherlock’s stepping stool), bouncing on her feet as she watched Sherlock waltz around the room with his violin, John tracking the movements with his eyes. The detective finished with a flourish, bowing at John’s applause, Ava babbling her approval.

 

“Pwetty!”

 

“Thank you, Ava,” Sherlock scooped his goddaughter from the floor, kissing her cheek and accepted one in return.

 

“Pwease?”

 

“Well, since you asked nicely, I suppose I can comply with your request.” Sherlock passed Ava off to her father, settling his violin against his shoulder anew. The little girl giggled, clapping clumsily on John’s lap. She leaned her head back, looking at her father upside down.

 

“Daddy dance?”

 

“Of course, little love.”

 

If Mrs. Hudson was every privy to those small moments in 221B where John twirled Ava about the room, the girl balanced on the tops of his feet as Sherlock played his violin, she never said. She never mentioned the smiles and the laughter, never dropped hints about the dance lessons, and she most certainly never brought up the lingering glances between her boys.

 

She was their landlady, not their relationship counsellor.


	5. The Hounds of Uncertainty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t leave me,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. “Please don’t leave me again.”
> 
> “I made a vow.”
> 
> “Dying won’t protect anyone.”
> 
> “It worked before,” he breathed, hands wrapped around John’s forearms.
> 
> “And I almost followed you over the edge. How did that ‘protect me’?”
> 
> Silence.
> 
> “If you want to protect us, don’t leave us behind.”
> 
> Dead silence.
> 
> “We need you.”
> 
> Complete, all-consuming silence.
> 
> “Please, Sherlock. I can’t lose you again.”
> 
> And then…speech.
> 
> “Because Mary isn’t here to pick up the pieces?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings!
> 
> This is lots of angst and lots of feels. Plus, a revelation of sorts and a shift in the John/Sherlock relationship.
> 
> The decision for Sherlock's nickname came from reading a few other fanfics. I've always been kind of partial to the idea of Sherlock being bilingual, so a French nickname or title seemed to fit. 
> 
> Insecure!Sherlock is a difficult thing to write. In season one, Sherlock is a pretty confident character who uses John as a moral compass. Season two is an introduction to Sherlock being unable to trust his senses or being overwhelmed by other people. Season three is just a lot of emotional turmoil and general frustration for viewing audiences. So, Insecure!Sherlock winds up being some cross between all three, depending on the author. This was my take.
> 
> Two left. Please stay with me!

John was seated in his red chair, nursing a mug of tea as he waited for Sherlock to come back from his latest case. He’d left that morning in a whirlwind of coattails and cashmere as John was coming back from doing the shopping, shouting over his shoulder that he would be back that evening.

 

It was 2 am.

 

Ava had cried herself to sleep, refusing any attempt at comfort. John hadn’t realized how deeply ingrained into their lives Sherlock had become until he was gone. There were no bedtime stories rumbled through the room in his deep baritone, no soft lullabies on the violin, no long arms swinging Ava about in her pyjamas, no dark curls tickling her cheeks as she wrapped her tiny body around his lean chest.

 

There were no quiet cups of tea and gentle camaraderie in the sitting room, no whispered case notes or bad telly, no lingering hands or prolonged glances, and John felt hollow in their absence.

 

He couldn’t remember when it had started, the first time: the touches and the stares. It had begun with endless mugs of tea and the inadvertent brush of skin as the warm ceramic changed hands, then rubbing elbows in the back of a cab. From there, the lines had blurred until his personal space felt incomplete without Sherlock looming into it. He’d fished the man’s phone from his jacket pocket, for Christ’s sake!

 

After the Fall, John had felt cold, missing the constant presence beside him, the warmth of a human body annoyingly invading his personal bubble. He’d felt numb, his blood sluggish, his mind a wreck as he shut down. He’s been alone. Completely and utterly alone. Like after the war.

 

Mary made him warm again.

 

And then she’d left and he was numb.

 

Now, back in 221B, it had started again: the casual touches that left him feeling grounded, the warmth of human contact tethering him to his home when the sadness tried to pull him back to that deep, dark place he’d inhabited in those first months after Mary. It was…good. It was really good.

 

A muffled curse from the stairwell snapped him back to the present, getting up from his chair to peer out the door. John turned the knob slowly, glancing onto the darkened landing, his body tense and ready to spring into action.

 

“Bloody hell.”

 

Sherlock was slumped against the wall, clutching his side as he squeezed his eyes shut. Tacky trails of deep crimson coated one side of his face, matting his curls and lending a sallow pallor to his complexion. John caught him as he stumbled forward, bracing the taller man by the shoulders to keep them both from tumbling down the stairs.

 

“I believe I am in need of a doctor,” Sherlock groaned, his face pressed into the crook of John’s neck, his breathing shallow and constricted. John nodded, helping the detective through the door and down to the loo, turning to flick on the light. He dashed into Sherlock’s room to grab his kit – the safest place to keep it out of Ava’s curious hands – returning moments later and hissing sharply as he took in the full extent of Sherlock’s injuries.

 

The brunette was covered in blood from head to toe, his Bellstaff soaked on one side. Deep, burgeoning bruises decorated his neck and the sliver of his chest made visible in the open vee of his collar, the purple spots angry and mottled against the pale skin. John helped him peel off the greatcoat and jacket, bracing his flatmate against the edge of the tub as he worked the buttons on his ruined shirt. The grey textile was positively saturated, the carmine patch of material adhered to his skin where the blood had started to dry. Slowly, John managed to rip the fabric out of the wound and off of his torso, wincing at the breathless curses Sherlock ground out between clenched teeth as his ribs were jostled. A quick pass of his hands over the area confirmed his suspicions – definitely broken.

 

“Informant. Remnant of Moriarty’s following. Tracked him to a set of flats on the West side. He wasn’t alone,” Sherlock panted, resting his forehead against John’s shoulder as he fought the urge to vomit. The doctor threw the shirt into the tub, keeping one hand on Sherlock’s hip as he slid his kit across the floor. This wasn’t going to be good.

 

The sharp hiss of the tap filled the room as John scrubbed up quickly, drying his hands before approaching the disastrous mosaic of Sherlock’s injuries. “I need you to lay down so that I can get to your ribs. Will you be able to do that without passing out?” The detective nodded slowly, inching his way down over the tiles until John could access the wound properly. He picked shards of glass from the cut along his ribs, jabbing a local anesthetic into the ragged skin and blotting the weeping fluids. His sutures were neat and precise, his hands gentle as he cleaned the area. John helped Sherlock back to a seated position, tilting his head gently to clean the blood from his face. The cut across one half of his supraorbital ridge was a clean split, but the skin was too thin for sutures. He pieced the edges together with steri strips, pinching the flesh into a straight line until the chasm at his brow was closed.

 

John swept alcohol swabs over shallow cuts, patted a damp flannel over bloodstains, and gently palpitated along Sherlock’s abdomen, the furrow between his brow growing deeper with every muffled groan and aborted curse.

 

When his ribs had been wrapped and the last bandage secured, John cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands, stroking his thumbs over the sharp cheekbones. He laid their foreheads together, breathing in the scent of antiseptic and dried blood, of asphalt and dust, of sweat and _Sherlock_.

 

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. “Please don’t leave me again.”

 

“I made a vow.”

 

“ _Dying_ won’t protect anyone.”

 

“It worked before,” he breathed, hands wrapped around John’s forearms.

 

“And I almost followed you over the edge. How did that ‘protect me’?”

 

 

“If you want to protect us, don’t leave us behind.”

 

Dead silence.

 

“We need you.”

 

Complete, all-consuming _silence_.

 

“Please, Sherlock. I can’t lose you again.”

 

And then…speech.

 

“Because Mary isn’t here to pick up the pieces?”

 

John flinched, jerking away from Sherlock as though he’d been electrocuted.

 

“That’s all that I am, isn’t is, a replacement for Mary?” Sherlock’s hands were still clamped on John’s arms, his knuckles bleached as he dug his fingers into the skin. “That’s why you’re still here, even though Mycroft kept your house, even though Ava is old enough to move, even though Mary’s life insurance keeps you from having to do locum work, but you still do anyway, because your _John_ , even though you don’t have to do _anything_ ” his nails bit into the skin of John’s forearms, the spidery fingers stiff against his radius. His head was down, staring at the cracked tiles as his voice hitched. “Even though you don’t need me anymore.”

 

“You fucking bastard,” John snarled, stifling the urge to jerk his hands away from his injured flatmate. He’d punched Sherlock while he was still healing. He’d thrown him to the ground and strangled him while the wounds on his back were still fresh. He’d split his lip and deviated his septum and watched him bleed because he was _livid_ and he wanted Sherlock to hurt just as much as he had and John had felt righteous in his anger. But he didn’t move, because somehow, hurting Sherlock now – when he was open and vulnerable and desperate – wasn’t justified. It was cruel.

 

John Watson was many things, but he was not a cruel man.

 

“I always needed you. Ever since you opened your mouth and blurted out ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’.”

 

Sherlock made a choked sound and pulled himself into John, trapping the shorter man between his long legs as he inhaled abated gulps of air. The doctor leaned against him, wondering whether he was the one keeping Sherlock upright as he sobbed or if it was Sherlock who kept him stable as exhaustion settled around his shoulders.

 

Maybe, they were just holding each other together, because going it alone was too hard and they were both too broken to try.

 

***

 

The ring was tarnished, the outside dimmer than it should be, and it confused Sherlock to no end.

 

“Sherlock, could you pass me the wooden spoon?”

 

“Fpoon?”

 

“Yes, Ava. Spoon. Ah, ta, love.” John smiled at the detective, the endearment going right over his head.

 

But Sherlock heard it. It played on repeat in his head, over and over until it became the ambient soundtrack of John’s room in his mind palace. The strange feeling bloomed under his breastbone, his heart gave a funny lurch, and he felt his mind stutter.

 

“John?”

 

“Dada, fpoon, too?” Ava held up her blue plastic spoon, shaking it in her first as she tugged at John’s denims. She was wearing her striped jumper today, a miniature of the one that John adored. Naturally, Sherlock favoured the items on both Watsons, but for entirely different reasons.

 

“Yes, Ava, that’s your spoon. And this is my spoon.” John brandished the wooden spoon, the tip coated in a fragrant red sauce.

 

“Dada, wan dat!” Ava stamped her feet and pointed to the larger spoon. Obviously the better choice since John had selected it. Sherlock and Ava both agreed that if John had chosen it, it was the best option. Clothing aside, of course.

 

“John?” Sherlock tried again, waiting for the doctor to be sufficiently distracted, to run on instinct and respond with his heart instead of his brain.

 

“What, love? No, Ava. Daddy needs this to cook. You have your own spoon, yeah?”

 

And there is was. It was there in the tarnish on his wedding band, in the casual touches, and in the close proximity when standing or sitting. It was there in the ease of his banter with his flatmate, in the trust they’d rebuilt since the Fall, in the way that he laid his life and Ava’s in Sherlock’s hands.

 

It was the beginning of the end: the end of Sherlock and John, the consulting detective and his blogger, and the beginning of Sherlock and John….something more.

 

***

 

_I need you to do something for me. –JW_

_And what might that be, Dr. Watson? –MH_

_It’s about Ava’s papers. –JW_

_Get in the car, Dr. Watson. –MH_

***

“You cannot bring a _child_ to the crime scene!”

 

“You asked for my help! John is at the surgery, Mrs. Hudson is at her book club, and I am _not_ leaving Ava in my brother’s manipulative hands.” Sherlock glared at the DI as Ava clutched her bee, her tiny face peeping out from behind the collar of Sherlock’s Belstaff.

 

“Lestwade,” she shook her bee at the DI, lips pursed. She was dressed in small denims and a light blue jumper that brought out her eyes, her blonde curls pinned up with a blue bow. Greg thought she looked an awful lot like her mother and wasn’t sure whether it should make him happy or sad.

 

“Yes, this is Gavin –”

 

“Greg. It’s still Greg and always has been _Greg_!” The DI stamped his foot and Ava giggled.

 

“Fine. _Greg_ Lestrade, the man who keeps me from getting bored when Daddy’s not around.”

 

“‘ _Daddy’_?” he scoffed, arching a brow.

 

“John. Do keep up.”

 

“Does John know she’s here?” Greg scraped a hand through his hair, sighing as Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 

“No, Lestrade. I came here without any permission at _all_ from the good doctor because I just felt like getting my nose broken – again – for making off with his offspring.”

 

“Not good,” Ava frowned, beating the bee against Sherlock’s shoulder.

 

“Ah. Quite right. Thank you, Ava. Yes, John knows. He’ll be here shortly.”

 

“She can do it, too?” Greg gawked at the grinning toddler, blinking as she smirked in a very Sherlockian manner.

 

“The crime, Lestrade? That is why we’re having this discussion in the first place.”

 

“Right. Um, this way. Mr. Belmont, the owner, says it was a murder. There’s some stuff thrown all over the place, but there’s also, well,” the DI screwed his face into a distasteful expression, leading Sherlock down a long hallway filled with a plethora of antiques into the remnants of a study. He paused at the door, looking at the toddler gnawing on the antenna of her plush bee. “Will she be okay to see this?”

 

“Yes, she got into one our old case files. You remember the one with all the limbs cut off and sewn onto the opposite side of the body. Ava asked up if she could put her hands on backwards, too.”

 

“Christ, you’d think she was yours, the way she’s adapting to murder.” He shouldered the door open, shaking his head.

 

The room was a disaster, even by Sherlock’s standards. Posh furniture carved from dark wood had been upended and smashed, splinters and jagged edges of wood sticking out at all angles.  Marble busts lay in ruin on the thick Persian rug, their fragments digging into the lush fabric. Tables were overturned and windows destroyed, glistening shards of glass littering the floor. There were old display cases overturned to one side, their latches snapped and their hinges crooked. Papers and book were strewn everywhere, torn and tattered as though they had been leafed through in a hurry, searching for something. Perhaps the most disturbing part of the chaos was the decapitated corpse. Hanging from the ceiling. Dripping blood. _Everywhere_.

 

“Oh. Clevoo.”

 

“Yes, very clever indeed.”

 

“Holmes, you can’t bring a toddler to a crime scene,” Sally shrieked, striding over with a scowl.

 

“Hello, Sgt. Donovan. You remember Ava,” Sherlock bit his cheek, keeping his insults to himself in the presence of his goddaughter.

 

“Sir, why is there a toddler on the scene?”

 

“We need his help.”

 

“But why is there a _child?_ ”

 

Sherlock sighed, making his circuit around the room, Ava balanced on his hip. The body was interesting: thick callouses layered the palms of the victim with green discoloration in the nail beds. His – yes, male – nails were short and cracked, the cuticles dark and split, with deep hangnails on the thumbs. There were healed scars along the forearms and permanent discolouration on the neck and below the elbow. Tanned, worked with his hands, nail discolouration, irregular, linear scars, weathered skin on the hands, callouses on the bottoms of the feet, scar tissue on the knees, and stiffness in the joints not related to rigor mortis. Gardner. Very interesting.

 

The rest of the room proved more difficult, but Sherlock persevered, toting Ava about as he gathered data. He noted the non-descript white box by the door, whole and intact. There were scuff marks around the window beside the desk, small green smears marring the white sill. The detective peered through one hole in the broken window, narrowing his eyes at the cracked brick face of the building shrouded in ivy. He could see the faintest shadow of imprints in the garden bed below, wider at the top and narrow at the bottom. Different sizes. Oh, that was good.

 

No. No, that was _not_ good.

 

He twirled, setting Ava down in the corner as he raked his eyes around the room. The deductions whirled through his mind, dust devils of information that twisted and swirled, sucking up the clues and spitting them out into a rather terrifying conclusion of all of the facts. Sherlock shifted his weight, concealing his goddaughter behind his coattails.

 

There was only one possible conclusion: someone came in through the window, but no one went out.

 

So, they were still in the room. But where? Where was it?

 

Overturned desk, broken bookshelf, shattered chair, where, where, _where_ – OH.

 

_There_.

 

There was an irregularity along one wall, a flaw in the pattern of the woodwork: two lines that didn’t match up. It fit with the discrepancies in the size of the room in comparison to those adjacent to it. An oversight. Missing space. Hidden closet for valuables.

 

 

“This is a cover-up. The body belongs to the gardener, who was helping our thief break in to steal some of the missing items Mr. Belmont will note upon performing an inventory. There was an argument concerning the split of profits. Obvious. People are greedy. Lestrade, come and stand over here. Don’t give me that face, just _do it_ ,” Sherlock barked, snapping his fingers at the DI.

 

“Now, there would have been a quarrel, a dispute. Someone didn’t like their share, and given the antiques in the hallway, the ruined busts, and what remains of the library, the titles of the volumes that populated the shelves, it would have been a sizable haul. Mr. Belmont is a collector of antiquities, this is his study and likely the place where he kept his most valuable items. There’s an alarm by the door: he didn’t want anyone getting in by conventional means, so the only way in or out would be the windows. No trees to climb, no tall structures in close proximity, so not an easy route by which to commits a robbery, but still possible. But how?” He stroked his hand over Ava’s curls, smiling down at her tightly. “The ivy on the wall just under the window. Green smears on the ledge left by residue on their shoes from the climb. But ivy alone isn’t strong enough to support the weight of an adult, so there would have to be an underlying structure. That’s where the gardener comes in: rig up a trellis under the ivy as a make-shift ladder and there you have it. Easy access to the goods. And a fight. Tempers flare, someone snaps, and our thief becomes a _murder_ ,” Sherlock drawled, shoving Greg so that his body shielded Ava while the detective strode towards the flaw in the wall.

 

“So, now the murderer has a body on their hands and a load of stolen goods to smuggle from the house. There’s blood everywhere, you’ll soon have the police mucking about, you can’t go out the way you came in _and_ bring the merchandise with you – climbing up a wall of ivy is difficult enough without added weight. That’s where the rope comes into it. The gardener would have lowered the heavier objects down with the rope before tossing it out the window and climbing out himself. With your partner dead, you’re left all by your lonesome. What to do, what to do,” he mused, grabbing a broken chair leg and hefting in with a grim expression. “Logical conclusion given the evidence: decapitate the body, string it up, wreck the room, and stage a murder to distract from the value of the objects that you stole. Then, hide in the closet until the police leave and make off with your payload home free once the scene has been cleared for the day.”

 

“Closet? What close –” Lestrade’s confusion was cut short by the hidden panel of the wall exploding forward, their murdered bursting out of his hiding place armed with bloody pruning shears. John arrived just in time to witness his best friend bash a man over the head with the jagged leg of a chair while Ava started to cry in the corner. The man dropped and Ava wailed, trapped behind Greg’s body as Sgt. Donovan rushed over to slap a pair of cuffs on the dazed man.

 

“You are _insane!_ Not only do you bring John’s child to a crime scene, but you bring her to one with the murderer still in the room!” Sally yelled, grinding her knee into the murderer’s spine.

 

“Oh, so it’s _my_ fault that you failed to completely clear the scene?” Sherlock’s head whipped around to find his goddaughter, his jaw tight.

 

“Shh. Don’t cry, Ava. You’re okay,” Greg scooped the little girl up, bouncing her and cooing softly, but to no avail. She reached for Sherlock, sobbing and kicking against Greg. Sherlock moved to soothe her, but Sally cut him off, blocking his way as a constable dragged their criminal from the room.

 

“You are not going near that child, not after that! You’re lucky I don’t call child protective services on you for this mess!”

 

“Sgt. Donovan –” the detective attempted to sidestep the irate woman, only to be cut off by a finger wagged in his face.

 

“No. You have done plenty of horrible things at crime scenes, Holmes, but endangering a child that’s not even your own? You are completely _barmy_!”

 

Ava cried even harder, straining to reach Sherlock as Sally yelled at him, her little sobs shaking her whole body. “Papa!” she shrieked, grabbing for the detective. All the officers froze, their eyes wide. Greg watched the detective’s face break into the painful desperation of a parent separated from their child as Sherlock shoved Donovan out of the way, bundling Ava into his arms.

 

“I’m here, I’m here. You’re safe. Papa won’t let anyone hurt you. I promise.” The little girl buried her face in his scarf, blubbering as he kissed the top of her head and smoothed her curls. “Papa’s sorry. It’s alright now.”

 

“Papaaaaaa.” Ava whined, relaxing into the lanky man’s chest as he whispered to her, rocking her gently until her teas began to dry.

 

John elbowed his way through the stunned officers, striding over to his daughter and cupping her blotchy face gently. Ava kept a tight hold on Sherlock as John soothed them both, murmuring softly while the entirety of the NSY attempted to scoop their jaws off of the floor.

 

“Daddy, Papa not good,” she sniffled, her body trembling with residual hiccups.

 

“No, Papa not waiting for Daddy before the case was very ‘not good’ and we’ll talk about it when we get home,” John promised, stooping to pick up Mr. Buzzbee from amongst the rubble.

 

“‘ _Papa’_?” Sally gaped incredulously, looking from John to Sherlock and back again. “Your daughter calls him ‘ _Papa’_?”

 

“ _Our_ daughter can call him whatever she wants since he helped raise her since birth. She could call him ‘Mummy’ for all I care. Come on, loves. We’re going home. Greg, we’ll get our statements to you tomorrow, yeah?” The DI nodded robotically, one hand clapped over his mouth, whether to stifle a grin or to hide his shock, John couldn’t be sure, but he bustled his little family from the room.

 

The cab ride home was tense, the passage from the crime scene to Baker Street marked by the shifting numbers on the cabbie’s counter and soft, shaky breaths from Ava. She refused to relinquish her hold on the detective’ Belstaff, falling asleep with her tiny fists curled tightly into the thick wool. Sherlock carried her inside as John paid the fare, managing to extricate himself from her grip long enough to transfer her to John’s bed, tucking Mr. Buzzbee and his scarf under the blankets with her.

 

John was waiting for him in the sitting room, an envelope in his hands and a sad expression settled in the corners of his mouth as he ran his fingertips over the official-looking stationary.  Sherlock perched on the back of his chair, facing John with a meek expression.

 

“She called me ‘Papa’.”

 

“Yeah. Pretty sure all the NSY heard that.”

 

“But John, I’m not her father. We’re not even biologically related! I can’t –”

 

“Here.” John passed him the envelope, his eyes tightening as the detective opened it and leafed through the contents. His breath hitched as he read the certificate over and over again, terrified that if he blinked, the words would disappear.

 

“Ava Grace Watson-Holmes,” he breathed looking up at John. “Why?”

 

“You were there for her when I wasn’t and you have continued to be there for her every single day of her life. She’s your daughter in all but blood, Sherlock. Mycroft just helped to make it legally binding.”

 

“I…” he swallowed, running his hands over the paper. He laughed, his eyes bright and crinkled at the corners, and gave a little hitch of breath.

 

God, he was beautiful.

 

Sherlock had often imagined what his first kiss with John would be like. Before Mary, back when he’d initially come to terms with his amorous inclination towards his flatmate, he’d deduced that any romantic relationship would be initiated by a post-case, adrenaline-fueled snog in the back of a cab or the front hall. Perhaps on the sofa, or maybe up against a door, but it would be something spontaneous and primal and heated, something that helped to channel the thrumming in his veins and the ache in his lungs after a case was complete and the norepinephrine was singing in his blood. He’d always assumed that John would cave, that the rigid, overtly heterosexual man would give in to the heat of the moment and forget about chromosomes and genitalia and the social norm and just _go for it_. Because John was both steady and changeable, both efficient and erratic; an enigma, a juxtaposition of two natures wrapped into a warm, jumper-clad package.

 

He’d never expected to be the one to initiate anything, to make the first move, to be the one to cross the line from friendship into _more_.

 

And he wasn’t. He’d been right. Mostly.

 

John’s lips were soft as they ghosted over his own, the barest of pressure teasing the skin. It was chaste, a whisper of a kiss, and Sherlock leaned forward, chasing real contact, real connection. John’s calloused palms bracketed his face perfectly as he pressed their mouths flush against one another, a comforting and reassuring weight supporting him as his mind reeled. John’s tongue was warm and wet as it teased the seam between his lips, gently asking for permission before Sherlock sighed his acquiescence and the kiss deepened.

 

His doctor tasted of bergamot and honey, of biscuits and chocolate, as his breath invaded Sherlock’s mouth, sweeping down into his lungs and replacing all of the oxygen with the taste and smell of _John_. It was like drowning, gasping for breath and clutching at anything nearby to help you stay afloat. Sherlock’s hands found John’s jumper and he clung to it for dear life, completely swept away by the tide of emotion and longing. He let out soft noises as John suckled his bottom lip and teased his tongue, he leaned into the reassuring weight of his soldier, letting himself get lost in the novelty of the moment. Sherlock wanted to record every second of it, to file away every taste, every touch, every smell and preserve it in his mind palace so that he would always have this moment.

 

Always.


	6. The Inevitable Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John weighed them in his hands, watching the late-afternoon sun catch against their pristine bands as he tilted his palm. He kissed the delicate rings with a sigh and slipped them back into their casing, pressing his lips to his own ring and mumbling into the tarnished surface.
> 
> He’d never been particularly good at goodbyes.
> 
> He replaced the box, sealing the lid tight and leaving the room, his fourth finger feeling much lighter than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> Um....yes....sooooo....here be smut. But nice smut. Like, warm and fuzzy and lots of feels. I've never written a scene like this before, so I hope I did it right. It's male on male, so if you're not a fan, my apologies. You can skip that part if you want to keep reading.
> 
> Sherlock's lisp. It's a love-hate relationship with me. Some fanfics make it cute, but it's hard to imagine the character with a massive lisp as an adult. Definitely under duress, since most speech impediments resurface under pressure, but not all the time. I thought that it might fit here, so I used it, and it's growing on me.
> 
> One chapter left! Please stay with me a little longer!

There was a special box in John’s closet where he kept his most prized and hated possessions. His medals were there, still carefully encased in their own velvet boxes, and photographs from Afghanistan. His dog tags sat nestled in one corner alongside a copy of his acceptance letter into medical school and his letter from the military. There, between the letters and the chain, the medals and the memories, was the small manila envelope containing Mary’s rings He plucked it from the shadowed depths, opening the slot and letting the rings tumble into his palm.

 

John weighed them in his hands, watching the late-afternoon sun catch against their pristine bands as he tilted his palm. He kissed the delicate rings with a sigh and slipped them back into their casing, pressing his lips to his own ring and mumbling into the tarnished surface.

 

He’d never been particularly good at goodbyes.

 

He replaced the box, sealing the lid tight and leaving the room, his fourth finger feeling much lighter than before.

 

***

 

“I cannot believe that you have subjected our child to the pedestrian, mediocre, _insufferable_ company of those idiotic, narrow-minded _Neanderthals_ called ‘children’ who roam the park like a band of uncultured hooligans with absolutely no concept of the –” John rolled his eyes and grabbed Sherlock my the collar, pulling the taller man down and kissing him on the cheek. The detective’s mouth clamped shut and he stared at John with a stunned expression.

 

“That _is_ the best way to shut you up.” The doctor kept walking, Ava puttering on ahead of her parents while Sherlock stood rooted to the spot. John looked back over his shoulder and smiled softly, his grey-blonde hair shimmering in the last rays of sunlight. “Mary was right. I wouldn’t have married her if I’d known what I was missing.”

 

***

 

_Really? –JW_

_You’re welcome, Dr. Watson – MH_

John stared down at the two envelopes in his hand, the NHS symbol emblazoned over one corner, torn between sending Mycroft an angry text telling him to keep his large nose out of other people’s business and thanking him for the gesture. Although, he did wonder how the man had procured the two blood samples.

 

Well, he _was_ the British Government.

 

Never wise to look a gift horse in the mouth.

 

***

 

“Papa, wan dat!”

 

“Want _that_ , Ava.”

 

“Papa, want dat!” Ava repeated, brow furrowing.

 

“That.”

 

“Th-at.”

 

“Close enough,” Sherlock chuckled, passing their daughter – and he really did love to think of it that way – his skull with a smirk. John watched them from the kitchen, leaning against the frame.

 

“Why do you do it, the pronunciation bit?” Sherlock shrugged, rolling back the sleeves of his blue button down.

 

“I had a lisp, when I was younger. My parents thought that it was adorable, but the other children were not quite as infatuated with the impediment as my family was.” The detective relaxed his mouth, letting his lips catch as he spoke. “It’th hard to make friendth when you talk like thith and have the dithpothition of a pompouth arth. Other children are tho terribly cruel about thingth like thith.”

 

John blinked, thinking back over all of the times that Sherlock had over-enunciated or spoken in clipped, precise tones, his posh accent sharp and unyielding. It made sense, now, if he’d been bullied for being different that he wouldn’t want their daughter to suffer the same fate.

 

“Right, then,” John snuffled, moving to Sherlock’s side and kissing him square on the mouth.

 

“What wath that,” he cleared his throat, pink high in his cheeks. “What was that for?”

 

“For being you.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Kissy!” Ava clapped, planting a clumsy peck on the top of Billy’s head.

 

“Yes, little love. Lots of kisses.” John peered back over his shoulder, grinning at his best friend. “And, for the record, it really is adorable. Don’t suppose I’ll be hearing much of it, though.”

 

“Only if I’m ever extremely tired.”

 

“Knew there’d be a plus side to your insomnia some day.”

 

 

***

 

There had been plenty of kisses in 221B: soft, sleepy morning kisses before they had to roll out of bed; wet, sloppy toddler kisses before breakfast; dry, chaste pecks on the cheek in passing or when exchanging mugs of tea; sweet, gentle kisses on the top of the head while down at the microscope or typing away on a laptop (read: John’s laptop, because Sherlock’s was across the room and that simple would _not_ do); messy, frantic giggle kisses during a tickle-fight with Ava; quick, rapid-fire kisses on the nose, cheek, lips, and forehead while their daughter squealed in their arms; tender, whispered bedtime kisses as they tucked Ava in to bed; slow, heated kisses beneath tangled sheets during nap times or late at night; and sly, open mouthed kisses that promised more at the most inappropriate of time – like a crime scene, or with Mycroft in the sitting room.

 

Sherlock had come to understand that kisses and caresses, casual touches and fond embraces, were really quite wonderful. They were comforting and grounding, allowing for a closeness between himself and the people he cared about without needing to express things out loud. He used kisses on the cheek instead of ‘thank you’, trailed fingers over exposed wrists as a way to say ‘please’, and kissed John deeply to tell him he was a ‘brilliant conductor of light’. In many ways, the nonverbal language of touch made it easier to navigate the strange waters of a new relationship, allowing biology to feed its cues into Sherlock’s brain for processing and storage.

 

“What do you think about,” John murmured, lying beside Sherlock in the deep, onyx shadows of their bedroom – formally Sherlock’s room – as the hours ticked by, sleepless and serene. It was one of the rare moments in 221B where everyone was still, where everything was quiet, and shadows swallowed the unease of waking hours, leaving behind a deafening silence. “When you’re lying there, all pensive? What do you think about so intently?”

 

Sherlock breathed deeply, turning his head to look at the doctor. “I think about many things, all at the same time. Just now, I was thinking about the fact that it is possible to remove the skin from another human being and wear it, not as clothing but as a separate layer over your own. It’s a technique used in forensic science to obtain the fingerprints of a corpse, often with skin slippage during decomposition. They can wear the person’s skin and take their fingerprints for records. I was wondering what it would be like to wear someone else’s skin,” Sherlock raised his hand into the air and regarded it intensely, the orange glare from the street lamps highlighting the twists and pull of his tendons as he waggled his fingers. “At the same time, I was attempting to determine the exact amount of force necessary to effectively crack the sternum with one’s bare hands in order to open up the thoracic cavity. It would require quite a bit, considering the density and durability of bone.”

 

The floating hand descended onto John’s chest, nestled between his pectorals as Sherlock turned his body, head tucked against John’s shoulder as he pushed down against the oddly trisected bone. “On another tangent, I was calculating the differences in dimensions between our two physical bodies in terms of height, widths, respective limb length, circumference of the rib cage and skull, respectively, and the like. This all brought me back to my original quandary, which has had me quite baffled for some time now, but I find myself no closer to the answer than before.”

 

“And what quandary is that, love?” John carded his fingers through the riotous curls, brushing his lips over an exposed sliver of pale forehead.

 

Sherlock leaned into the contact before pulling away, propping himself up on one elbow as he regarded John curiously. Long, tapered fingers smoothed the wrinkles in his t-shirt as the detective tipped his head to one side. “How did you manage it, John?”

 

“Manage what, exactly?”

 

_To carve open my chest and worm your way inside, to fill me completely and slip into my skin, to seep into my blood and the air in my lungs and possess me so completely that I can’t even imagine what it was like before you?_

 

Sherlock never said any of this out loud. It was too difficult to find the words and make his tongue shape the consonants and vowels that would make John understand just how deeply their symbiosis affected him. Instead, he leaned down and pressed his lips to John’s; breathed his air, tasted his skin. His soldier responded in kind, rolling them over so that Sherlock was enveloped in a human blanket, hands and fingers grabbing and tangling at hair and clothes. Calloused palms scraped against stubble, blunt nails dragged across strips of skin, and lips chased soft moans deep into each other’s mouths.

 

“ _John_.” It was a plea, a demand, and a question all at once, neither one entirely sure what was being asked, but knowing that it was a prelude to _more._

 

It was new. It was uncharted territory between them that went past heated kisses and frantic rutting when there were too many hormones to think straight. This was taking that final step, changing their relationship completely, becoming Sherlock and John as lovers, not just partners.

 

It was saying goodbye to Mary.

 

And John was ready to let her go.

 

The doctor slipped his hands under the frayed hem of a worn sleep shirt, pulling the fabric up inch by inch to expose silver and white skin, vibrant and gruesome splashes of colour dabbling the planes of Sherlock’s chest. John slipped the t-shirt over sharp features and dark curls, wrapping it loosely around slender wrists as he licked and nipped his way along the column of Sherlock’s neck. The detective arched into the assault on his skin, twisting his hands into the cotton manacles that held his arms aloft, keeping him from touching, cataloguing, testing. It was ecstasy and torture all at once. Finally, John let go, ripping the fabric away and tossing it into a far corner of the room, his hands sweeping down over the vault of Sherlock’s ribs and the dip of his waist, his thighs bracketing narrow hips. Sherlock let his hands wander, skimming the sliver of tan skin between waistband and hem, squeezing biceps and deltoids, tracing the zygomatic arches of a perfect skull, and pulling John closer to kiss him again.

 

A firm hand against his sternum brought John back on his heels, spidery fingers skittering along the edge of his shirt and tugging it off with a strangled sigh, lips latching on to the skin laid bare in its wake. Sherlock wrote his thoughts with lips and teeth and tongue, carving his message into the pliant skin. His hands gripped John’s hips as he licked and sucked at one nipple, trailing his mouth over to the other and repeating his attentions. Soft, shallow pants filled the room as John rocked in Sherlock’s lap, hands braced against broad shoulders as his nerves were set ablaze.

 

Wandering lips crossed the border between whole flesh and ruined skin, gnarled scar tissue making the change in terrain from field medic to invalidated soldier. Sherlock memorized the feel of the starburst under his lips, recorded the taste of the keloid on the flat of his tongue, tested the strength with the blunt edge of his teeth, teased it with his lashes as he took in the shiny, puckered skin until he was intimately acquainted with the scar that had brought John to him. Brought him _home_.

 

Strong hands pulled at his curls, tipping his head back to expose his mouth to John’s explorations as they tumbled back into the nest of pillows and duvet, the scope of the world narrowing to the slide of lips and the rasp of cloth on heated skin. Clever fingers slid over ridged abdominals and through the rough trail of hair to skim along the waistband of John’s sleep pants, gripping the elastic and tugging oh so very slowly before sweeping back over the swell of his arse to push their hips flush in the darkness.

 

“Christ!” John slotted their foreheads together, breathing through the rush of pleasure that seared along his axons and put a hitch in his breathing. Sherlock groaned softly, hips stuttering beneath John’s weight. Blunt fingers gripped his partner’s waistband, shifting his weight to straddle his thighs and pull the worn material down, freeing the detective’s cock from its confines. John’s pyjama bottoms followed, cast into the shadows without a backwards glance. Both men stared at one another, pupils dilated, skin flushed, their pulses roaring in their ears. Sherlock reached out one hand, holding it in the space between them, waiting.

 

It was hard. God, it was so hard. There was a small part of him that wanted to remain faithful to Mary until his dying day, but the rest of him screamed for Sherlock. Not because of his arousal or the promise of release, but because this was his best friend, his best man, his partner in crime and in parenthood, waiting for _him_ to make the choice, giving him the chance to turn back if it was too much.

 

He laid his palm flat against the detective’s, shivering as slender fingers curled around his skin and lips brushed his knuckles. Sherlock kissed the pale skin that marked where his wedding band once lay, mouth moving against the lingering indent at the base of the finger.

 

_It’s okay to be angry, to be sad, to be hurt._

 

John settled atop Sherlock’s thighs, rotating his wrist to expose the brunette’s fingers, sweeping his own lips over the scarred skin. He paused, considering the pattern of the silvery skin and grabbed the other hand, laying them side by side in his own and he knew.

 

He’d scrubbed his hands raw when the first soldier had died under his watch, his blood staining the sand and leaving a rusty patina on John’s skin. He could still smell it when he closed his eyes and dreamed of the desert.

 

The doctor leaned forward, sealing their lips together and pushing the taller man deep into the mattress, grinding their hips together and keening under his breath. He’d missed this: the intimacy of skin against skin, the taste of salt on lax lips, and the connection between two human beings on a carnal level. There was a deep-seated _need_ for unity; a longing to be as close to another person as possible, to merge two people into one being so that neither one was alone anymore.

 

A cold tube was pressed against one arm, giving John pause. “It’s fine. It’s all fine,” Sherlock rasped, his voice nearly a full octave lower and coloured with desire.

 

John nodded, suckling on Sherlock’s kiss-swollen lips as he warmed the lube between his fingers, sliding down between long legs to the thatch of dark curls and flushed, hard skin. In the army, things were lonely, and lending a hand – or a mouth – could help to make the bleak days feel a little more human. John had been on both ends, and the familiar slide of velvet skin across his tongue and the roof of his mouth brought back memories of stifling barracks and cramped bunks, but the heady scent of Sherlock – dark and deep and decadent – cemented him in the here and now. As his mouth worked the shaft, his fingers crept down past a tight sac and over the detective’s perineum, circling the pad of his thumb over the furled skin. Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath as the skin was loosened slowly, the tip of a slick finger working its way inside as John flicked his tongue over the glans. John worked in a second finger, stretching the ring of muscle and humming softly. The detective’s hips bucked as the doctor curled his fingers, pressing lightly against the tiny bundle of nerves that had Sherlock seeing stars.

 

“ _Oh,_ ” he groaned, head thrown back as another finger worked its way in. John pulled off of his cock with wet sound, the thumb of his free hand smoothing circles over this swell of Sherlock’s iliac crest. Fingers slipped from the loosened muscle, sweeping more lube over his heated erection. He braced himself, pulling Sherlock’s legs around his waist, and lined himself up with one hand.

 

It was a slow push, inch by inch, letting the detective adjust to the burn and stretch until John was fully seated, his hands braced on either side of the detective’s face. He opened his eyes, looking down over the patchwork of scars until his eyes found the raised pink circle just below his breastbone. John rocked his hips slowly, pumping in and out languorously as he stared at the mark Mary had left behind on his new lover.

 

_That wasn’t a_ miss _. That was_ surgery _._

John laid one hand over the scar, fingers digging into the flushed skin of Sherlock’s chest as they thrust and bore down together. He felt the frantic tattoo of the detective’s heartbeat reverberating through his chest, the frenetic thump drumming against his palm.

 

Alive. He was alive.

_His heart stopped! He_ died _on that table, Mary._

_But he didn’t stay dead, John. He never has!_

_Did you_ ever _stop to think what it would do to me, to lose him_ again _? You of all people should know how that would end._

_With a baby on the way and a wife to leave behind? Would you really be so_ selfish _?_

_Either way you would be married to a_ corpse _, because I couldn’t live through that again. Not knowing that you were the reason he was dead._

 

_You love him._

_I love_ you _. I married_ you _._

_Just because you gave me a ring doesn’t mean that you gave me your whole heart._

_Is it possible, to love two people so completely?_

_I don’t know. Is it?_

_I’d like to think it is._

_I’d like to think so, too._

 

Perhaps it was twisted that their hands came together and settled over the scar, or maybe it was just the need to feel connected to the woman that had saved both of their lives from being ended by a gun. Either way, they held each other, breathed each other’s air, tasted each other’s skin as they chased their release, the tiny reminder of Mary trapped between their bodies and connecting them as they came completely undone.

 

Two broken men lay in jagged shards between ruined sheets, holding each other together as the darkness gave way to the dawn.

 


	7. His Final Vow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John ran his thumb over the platinum ring, his nail catching on the engravings, clicking against the band at the beginning and the end.
> 
> Six symbols. Six years.
> 
> Strangers. Flatmates. Coworkers. Partners. Friends. Lovers.
> 
> The beginning and the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warmest greetings!
> 
> It's done. That's it. It's over. 
> 
> Warning: this chapter also has smut, but not fluffy smut, angry/sad/hurt kind of smut. Still male on male, just to warn you.
> 
> I own none of these characters. They are all from the BBC Sherlock TV series of which I am a fan. Quotes from the show have been used throughout this work to support certain ideas, because the writing is brilliant, and I hope to be that talented one day.
> 
> This was a tricky chapter to write. How do you wrap up a story, but leave it open enough to imagine the future in that timeline? Very tricky.
> 
> I hope that you've enjoyed this work. Thank you for taking the time to read it. :)

Sherlock knew London like the back of his hand: he knew the taste of her air on his tongue, knew the dissonance of her urban life, knew the scent of her shops and secrets. It was home, but he knew that one day, when he was old and grey, the siren call would fade and he would leave behind the concrete jungle for more serene dwellings. Perhaps Sussex. He’d always had a desire to raise bees.

 

He was grateful to London for many things, his career only one of the highlights brought about by his time in the city. Across the way, clutching tightly to her father’s hand as she twirled in her small grey coat, was reason number two for his gratitude. The weathered soldier grinning at the little girl while he paid the merchant was reason number one.

 

“Papa, flowers!”

 

“Hm? Oh, those are lovely. Where did you get those?” Sherlock stooped to greet his daughter, smoothing her wayward curls back beneath her blue headband.

 

“Daddy,” she beamed. “Present.”

 

“A present for you?”

 

“No, for Papa.”

 

Sherlock blinked, peering at the bouquet. It was an understated arrangement of indigo blossoms and tiny white bells, the contrast in colour both pleasing and subtle. John sauntered over, grinning at his two most precious people.

 

“Delphiniums and Lily of the Valley,” the detective breathed, inhaling the sweet perfume of two of the most deadly flowers on the planet.

 

“I figured you’d appreciate their duality,” he chuckled, crouching to press a kiss to Ava’s cheek.

 

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock smiled, rising and kissing his partner gently.

 

“Just, no toxins in the kitchen, love. Keep it in the lab.”

 

“You have my word.”

 

“Papa, we exspermint?”

 

“Yes, Ava, we can experiment.”

 

Sherlock Holmes was grateful for many things in London, but his family most of all.

 

***

 

“Faster, John, he’s getting away!”

 

They raced through narrow back alleys and in between rusted skips, hopping fire escapes and chain-link fences as they chased down their suspect. The man was lithe and fast on his feet, staying a few feet ahead of them as they were forced to weave and dodge urban obstacles in the crepuscular shadows. Sherlock whipped a stone at the back of the man’s head, missing by a foot and directing him into a sharp left turn.

 

 

They reached the empty lot seconds after their target, Sherlock’s long legs giving them the advantage as he sprinted over flat ground, tackling the man about the waist and bringing him to the ground.

 

Ah, gravity, thou art a most cold and heartless bitch.

 

John skidded to a stop, whipping out his Browning and training it on the squirming man.

 

“Enough! Enough!” Sherlock snarled, pinning the man with a knee between his shoulder blades. “Tell me where the last of Moriarty’s men are!”

 

“You won’ get it outta me,” the man growled, light eyes flashing beneath the layer of grime on his face. Sherlock twisted his arm, tightening his hold as he felt hard muscles tense for a strike. The suspect hissed, relaxing under the assault.

 

“Talk. Or I’ll let this man put a bullet through your knee.”

 

“Oh, Mr. ‘Olmes, how far you’ve fallen. There was a time where you’d let ‘im kill me an’ be done wif it.” A sly grin stretched the man’s face, highlighting the scar running through his brow.

 

“ _You_ ,” Sherlock gasped, recognizing the battered face. “You’re the sniper. The one that got away in Serbia. The one he had trained on John. Colonel Sebastian Moran.”

 

“Only the best for the final problem,” he chuckled, staring up at John with bright eyes.

 

“I’m flattered,” the doctor ground out, clicking off the safety.

 

“You miss it, don’ you. The war, the blood, the fightin’? Makes you wish you’d never left Afghanistan.” Blue eyes went flat, roving over John’s face. “It’s in the dreams, when you feel most alive. Bein’ back in the desert, back on the front lines. ‘Course, I never was a front line man. I prefer t’ hunt from afar. Lovely colour, red. Sticks out so well in a crowd. Can’t miss it.”

 

“Mary,” Sherlock hissed, his vision swimming.

 

“Mary, Mary, quite contrary. Did she tell you abou’ the pool? How we lay side by side waitin’ for the bosses order to kill you?”

 

“John, don’t do it. Don’t listen to him.”

 

“Did she tell you abou’ sittin’ and waitin’ for Sherlock to solve the puzzles with a gun trained on a civilian? Did she tell you abou’ pullin’ the trigger and endin’ a blind woman’s life? Did she tell you abou’ feedin’ poisoned candy to kidnapped children in an old factory?

 

“Did she tell you just how bad she was, Dr. Watson?”

 

The crack resonated through the open space, echoing into the night as sirens approached. Sebastian Moran lay face down in the dirt, silent and still, dark blood marring his temple.

 

Sherlock stood slowly, removing the gun from John’s hands and folding him into an embrace.

 

“He doesn’t deserve to die. He deserves to _suffer_ ,” John whispered, his voice harsh and dark, sending chills skating down Sherlock’s spine. “Call your brother. Tell him that this is a black and white situation if he wants information.”

 

_You ought to remember, Sherlock, I was a soldier! I killed people!_

_You were a doctor._

_I had bad days!_

 

***

 

John bit into the soft skin of his forearm with a savage desperation as Sherlock thrust into him, the sharp tang of blood blooming across his tongue. He unclenched his jaw, moaning as his prostate was abused on every thrust. The doctor could feel the detective behind him, warm and steady and real as everything else faded into the shades of a haunted past, leaving him clawing at the last tendrils of reality.

 

_That’s why there are people like me._

_Did she tell you abou’ the pool?_

_If you love me, don’t read it in front of me._

_Did she tell you abou’ pullin’ the trigger and ending’ a blind woman’s life._

_Because you won’t love me when you’re finished._

 

“ _Sherlock_ ,” he gasped, feeling long fingers dig into his hips, and a familiar weight settle across his back. His arms and legs shook with the strain, his body slick with sweat as heat coiled low in his abdomen, burning as one pale hand snuck around his waist to stroke him in time to the deep thrusts.

 

_I’ve never made a vow in my life, and after tonight, I never will again. So here, in front of you all, my first and last vow. Mary and John: whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will_ always _be there,_ always _, for the three of you._

 

“Ah-ah-ah!” He fisted his hands in the sheets, teetering on the brink, his body vibrating with the need for release. Sherlock clamped his teeth around the hard curve of his deltoid and sank them into the muscle, stifling a curse as he came, hot and wet inside of John.

 

_The problems of your past are_ your _business. The problems of your future…are my privilege._

_Is it possible to love two people so completely?_

 

The detective twisted his wrist and rubbed his thumb over the head of John’s cock, ending with a pull that had John screaming into a pillow and coming hard over the sheets, his eyes tearing up with the force of his orgasm and the maelstrom of emotions swirling in his mind. They lay tangled up in one another as John’s breathing became normal, panting and touching, cementing themselves in the reality of one another.

 

“John,” Sherlock wrapped his arms around the doctor’s waist, pulling him closer and kissing the livid purple indent of his teeth on his good shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

 

“I still love her.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I love you, too.”

 

“I know.”

 

***

 

John ran his thumb over the platinum ring, his nail catching on the engravings, clicking against the band at the beginning and the end.

 

Six symbols. Six years.

 

Strangers. Flatmates. Coworkers. Partners. Friends. Lovers.

 

The beginning and the end.

 

***

 

“I have made a vow only once in my life, and, at the time, I never intended to make another. It was supposed to be my first and my last vow. Today, I stand here, before all of you, the only people on the planet who appear to have had the unfortunate privilege of making my acquaintance and deciding to come back for more, to make a _second_ vow.” Soft laughter filled the grounds at Mummy and Father’s home, bright sunlight glinting off of vibrant hats and polished spectacles.

 

“John, the people who are here today were privy to my best man speech to you two years ago. Much of what I would like to say has already been said, and, seeing as I detest repetition, I wish to focus on the last two years of our time together, because it was there that you showed me what strength in the face of adversity really is.

 

“There are not many people who could suffer through the loss of a close friend and find happiness so soon. There are fewer people who could find forgiveness for the one by whom they were wronged. You have forgiven me, time and time again, and for that, I am truly grateful.” A gentle breeze ruffled the detective’s curls, the buttonhole delphinium and lily of the valley swaying against his lapel. John smiled, running his thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles, Ava settled in the space between them.

 

“There are also not many people who could suffer through the loss of a loved one, of a partner, and manage to come out, whole and unscathed, with a beautiful, perfect child to show for their efforts. You, John Hamish Watson, are a wonder.

 

“At my grave, you asked me for one more miracle: to not be dead. I think that you have overlooked the fact that _you_ are a miracle, John, with your strength, your courage, and your unconditional love in all that you do.

 

“My vow to you today is not dissimilar to the one I made at your last wedding. John and Ava,” he stooped, scooping up their daughter and holding her between their hearts. He slipped the twin to his platinum band around John’s finger, twining their left hands together so that the wedding bands clinked softly.

 

“Whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there, always, for the two of you. To love you in the darkest of times and the happiest of moments, and to stand beside you as a once-great man who is learning to be a good one.

 

“This is my final vow.”

**Author's Note:**

> Drop by and say hello on [my Tumblr](http://artfulinanities.tumblr.com/)


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